


facedown

by smallbeans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Brotherly Relationship, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Depressed Stiles, Eating Disorders, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Derek, POV Stiles, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Steo Is Not The Focus, Stiles Has Issues, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 146,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6923314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallbeans/pseuds/smallbeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is messed up before his mother cheats on his father, but when the Sheriff dies from an attack on the station, Stiles' emotions are thrown into a blender. Then, he is forced to live with his mother and Robert Hale, and his two snobby children, all the while dealing with the inward battles, voices in his head, and high school bullies.</p><p>And then, Theo Raeken moves to town.</p><p>(Re-written and updated 1st June. Previously titled: Everlasting Pain).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. nicotine doll

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be one rough ride.
> 
> **WARNINGS:**  
>  \- eating disorders  
> \- depression  
> \- graphic self-harm  
> \- drug use  
> \- rape  
> \- bullying  
> \- murder  
> \- sexual manipulation
> 
> do not read this story if any of these trigger you. this is graphic and brutal and i can not stress it enough.
> 
> take care, and enjoy (if you can) <3

****Stiles stares out into the bare garden of overgrown weeds and empty flower beds that have been abandoned during the passing summer months. He blinks, eyes sore and red, a chilling tear rolling down his cheek and dropping onto the decaying wooden decking under his feet. He's sitting on the back step, knees pulled up to his chest as he tries to curl up, making himself impossibly smaller.

Behind him, the house movers are working, moving furniture around him like he isn't even there. Maybe he isn't, because he certainly doesn't feel like it. He certainly doesn't want to. He doesn't want to feel anymore, doesn't want to feel the pain he'd been feeling for the last two weeks since his father's death. He feels hollowed out, as if someone has scooped out his insides like a Jack-O-Lantern.

A hand lands on his shoulder suddenly. Stiles flinches under the touch, a subtle jerk despite the touch being gentle. He doesn't bother looking up to see who it is, already recognising the motherly voice that calls his name.

"Stiles?" His mother doesn't move her hand from his thin shoulder. "Stiles, come on, honey. We need to go. All that's left are your bags."

Stiles doesn't move for a few moments, shoulder's tensing for a second before he finally rises to his feet, not sparing a glance at his mother as he walks through the house and runs up the creaking stairs of his home for the last time.

The walls of his room are empty, bare of any posters or photos that he's stuck up over the childhood years he's lived here. The stained and worn carpet still has the deep indents from his furniture that was quickly moved out. The window sill is empty, the dust still sitting in the places his belongings weren't, leaving patches of clear white. The only thing left is a stuffed duffel bag sitting in the middle of the room. Stiles moves from the doorway as fast as he can, grabbing the bag by the handles and turning to leave as soon as he can. He can feel the tightness in his chest, squeezing his lungs like a stretched rubber band. He can't stay, but at the same time he doesn't want to leave.

On his way out, his sweatshirt sleeve gets caught on the door handle, riding up the thin fabric to reveal the pale expanse of his lower arm. Despite being alone, Stiles panics, frantically reaching down to retch the sleeve back down to recover his scarred arm, the years of his darkness carved into his mangled skin.

It was something only his dad knew about, and he found out by accident only two months before he died. But that didn't matter now, because his dad is gone, and now Stiles is being moved out of the only place he's called home during his whole fifteen years of life, and is going to live with his mothers new boyfriend and his children.

Stiles still couldn't understand why in the world his mother thought it would be appropriate to announce the moving day only 15 days after his fathers death, and only a week after his funeral. His parents have been divorced for six months, so his mother hasn't been holding back on the open 'moving on' scheme she's on. He just wished his mother would see that he isn't ready to go yet, he isn't ready to change everything he feels permanent of.

He'd dropped his bag in panic of the reveal of his arm, so he reaches down to pick it up again before dashing down on the stairs on shaky legs. He feels the guilt and sadness tug at his heartstrings as he walks down the stairs for the last time, the uncarpeted wooden planks creaking and groaning under his shoe-covered feet. Memories flash behind his eyes of the times he'd fallen down them, bouncing like a dropped ball on each step, or slid down them on his mattress despite his parents telling him continuously not to.

Claudia is waiting in the car for him, flashing him a warm smile that he can't bring himself to return. After putting his duffel bag on the backseat, he climbs in the front, not bothering with a seatbelt and his mother must fail to notice as she's driving away the moment he closes the door.

"Robert has got your room set up for you already. He said he hasn't had time to decorate it yet, but we thought it would be a nice project for us all to do it together," his mother says happily, glancing at her son who continues to stare out the window with the same emotionless expression he wears. "Would you like that?"

Stiles shrugs and mutters, "I don't care."

Claudia bites her tongue, and Stiles can hear the sharp intake of breath she sucks in as if she's holding back a shout. "You might not care now," she replies, "but you'll be grateful when you get comfortable."

Stiles doesn't reply, he can't bring himself to. He knows whatever he says will only frustrate his mother even more.

Soon, the grey roads lined with houses begin to dwell down, the houses further apart. Tree's replace the brick architecture until they're only surrounded by thick forest and dirty terrain. The tarmac roads change into a dirt track as his mother turns off and heads into the Beacon Hills Preserve. A blur of browns and greens brush by as Claudia's silver family Volvo struggles along the makeshift dirt track.

Standing out like a drop of blood in a stark white basin, Stiles notices the house almost instantly as it comes into view. The huge, modern, white painted mansion stands behind the uneven rows of tall trees. The house is so large and high class that Stiles doesn't think such a home belongs in the sleepy, rundown town of Beacon Hills. Despite Stiles' judgement on the size and standard of the home, Stiles is grateful that Robert has stayed in Beacon Hills, as he isn't sure he would be able to cope with his mother moving him to another town as well.

Stiles doesn't notice when the car slowly rolls to a stop, the gravel of the drive way crunching under the tires. The lead up to the house is almost as glamorous as the house itself.

A wide stone drive way circles around a running water fountain the centre, gushing water as it overflows and splashes into the pool below it, over and over and over again. There's two cars parked in front of the house, to the right of the front steps, both slick black and probably worth more than Stiles' entire childhood home.

"What do you think?" Claudia smiles, but Stiles simply continues to stare at the home he can't imagine he'd ever call home. "Come on," Claudia continues, opening the drivers door, "It's better inside."

Stiles almost scoffs, following his mother out of the car in a much slower fashion. His mother makes no move to reach for the bags as she shuts her door and heads towards the house, but Stiles reaches into the back to get his duffel bag, slinging it on his shoulder before following his mother up the large, grand steps to the front doors.

The inside isn't anymore appealing to Stiles. Once through the double doors into the house, Stiles finds himself standing in the middle of the house, all open plan and _huge_. There's no other way to describe it but something out of a dream. There is no foyer, no entrance. Through the front door, they step directly into the centre of the house with the living room area to the side, with a set of large couches and a love seat, a large flat screen mantled to the wall above a electronic fireplace. Beyond it is a large set of stairs, curving around and disappearing to the second floor. Floor to ceiling windows stand all around, huge and wide, letting all the light shine through and reflect of the marble looking floors. Blood red drapes frame the windows, matching the pillows on the couches and the vases of roses on the coffee table. The ceiling is high above them, a huge chandelier hanging above them, dangling jews that glimmer in the sun shining through. Everything is clear and simple, perfectly placed and untouchable.

Doors lead off from the grand room, hallways leading to unknown places. There's a archway towards the back, clearly leading into the huge kitchen that is probably the size of Stiles' entire downstairs of his old home.

 _Too big_ , Stiles keeps thinking as he looks around. _It's too big_.

"Claudia?" A deep voice calls out moments before a tall man walks out of the archway.

Stiles has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes at the high class suit the man is wearing, the man he recognises as Robert Hale. The successful man is well known all around the states for his business companies that Stiles has taken no interest in when the man has tried to brag about the first time they had met.

"Hello, love," Robert walks up to his mother, pulling her into a hug before kissing her deeply on the lips. Stiles has to look down then, averting his eyes to his scuffed converse to stop himself from throwing up the coffee he'd drank this morning. "Stiles," the voice snatches the teens attention away from the expensive marble floor. He looks up, not meeting Robert's eyes. "I hope you can settle here. I understand it will be hard but I want you to know this is just as much my home as it is yours now. Okay?"

"Sure," Stiles replies quietly.

Robert shifts, and Stiles doesn't know what to think of the way he stands beside his mother, the way his expression loses it's softness it had held before. Stiles recognises the annoyance in his thinned lips.

"How about I show you to your room? I'm sure Claudia has told you about decorating," Robert says.

Stiles nods. "Yeah. Mom told me."

Robert nods in reply, seemingly lost of what to say to that. "Your room is at the end of the hall. There's a bathroom to the left that you'll share with Derek."

"Okay," Stiles replies, moving across the large space between the front door at the stairs.

"We're going to get the boxes in," his mother calls behind him. "I'll bring your stuff up for you and when we're done we can give you a complete house tour!"

"Whatever," Stiles mutters, ascending the stairs with one hand running along the cold, black-painted metal banister that lines the staircase. He pretends he doesn't hear his mother reassuring Robert that he was simply bothered about moving and he will be fine by dinner. He will not.

At the top of the stairs, Stiles spares a glance over the balcony that overlooks the floor below. He's so high he feels his stomach drop. He looks away quickly.

The landing is long and wide, a fluffy white rug sitting on the dark wooden planked floor. There's five doors along the one wall. Stiles assumes one room is Robert and Claudia's bedroom, one is Derek's bedroom, one is Cora's bedroom, then the bathroom and finally Stiles' room. There's a thin table standing against the wall between two doors, bare apart from a white vase on top with colourful flowers and a clock hung on the wall above it.

Stiles doesn't dwell too much, making his way down the hall to the last door that he assumes is going to be his.

Claudia wasn't exaggerating when she said Robert hadn't done any decorating to his room apart from refurnish it. All of Stiles' old furniture was gone, his mother refusing to bring it along. His new room consisted of a large double bed in the centre, two symmetrical windows either side of it with cushioned window seat sills. There's a large dresser to the right of the room, a desk with draws beside it in the corner. On the other side is a empty bookcase and a mirror hung on the wall. Everything is white; the walls, the furniture, the bedsheets. It reminds Stiles of a doctors office, plain and boring and bland.

Stiles discards his bag on the bed, looking around the pain room that although is filled with expensive furniture, doesn't appeal to him in the slightest. His old room had character and memories. Stiles is looking forward to plastering the boring walls with his many posters and drawings he's done and torn out of his sketch book. He needs to fill the walls, give him something to look at the drag him away from his everlasting spiralling thoughts.

He knows deep down though, that no matter how many things he puts up on the walls, no matter how many books he stuffs to fill the shelves, this will never feel like home.

It will never _be_ home.

*

Derek brakes the car to a stop as the dirt under the tires scrape slightly. The familiar white mansion before them stands as it always does, the only addition being the silver Volvo that's parked beside his fathers black SUV.

"I completely forgot they were moving in today," Cora says beside him.

Derek nods, he had forgotten too. This day hasn't been a long time coming. If anything, Derek thinks it's too soon. Claudia is pleasant enough, sweet and kind, but at the end of the day, she will never be like Derek's mother.

Derek isn't dim either, he knows about the sheriff's death not two weeks before, and he knows as much as everyone else everything that went down at the station the night of the shooting.

And Claudia isn't the only one moving in, she's bringing her son with her too. Derek knows as much about Stiles as the next person. He knows he's the son of the sheriff who was recently assassinated, he knows Stiles has disappeared under the social radar since his parent's split at the beginning of the year. He's seen Stiles a few times at school, seen him in the corridors or the lunch hall, sitting with Lydia Martin and Scott McCall.

Derek hasn't thought much about Claudia and Stiles moving in, but now it feels all too real seeing the Volvo parked outside. He follows Cora out, slamming his car door all too roughly.

Inside, Derek finds his father and Claudia in the kitchen, seated at the table with coffee's in their hands. Claudia's boxes are stacked high all around the living area by the stairs.

"Derek," Robert says as they walk through the archway. "How was your day?"

"Fine," Derek answers with a nod, going to the fridge and pouring himself a glass or orange juice. He meets Claudia's eyes, who flashes him a smile that he forces himself to return as he leaves the kitchen, passing Cora on the couch and heading upstairs.

 

"I still don't think it's worth it, love," Robert chuckles before taking a large spoonful of spaghetti meatballs into his mouth.

Claudia had cooked the meal, insisting that she makes the first meal on her first night as it is 'unfair' to treat her as a guest in her own home. It is apparently a homemade recipe that she's cooked many times before, and often with Stiles, but the teen hasn't reappeared from his room since he arrived earlier that afternoon. Claudia is continuously apologising and explaining her sons feelings are still slightly sore from the move. None the less, Robert, his two children and Claudia sit around the table and enjoy the meal as a family.

"Of course it's worth it," Cora replies, "It's Hawaii, dad! You know I've always wanted to go there."

"Cora, darling, as much as I am truly proud of you as a father, I don't think getting into junior year is a good enough reason to go to Hawaii," Robert says cautiously.

Cora rolls her eyes in response, but doesn't complain any further although Derek can see his sister is still annoyed. The sudden sound of footsteps approaching the large kitchen has the whole group pausing their food in time to see Stiles walk into the room.

Slightly surprised by the many pair of eyes that land on him the moment he enters the room, Stiles suddenly feels more uncomfortable than he'd originally been. The teen pauses like a deer in headlights before Robert breaks the suffocating silence.

"Hello, Stiles. Hungry now?" Robert greets, placing his spoon and fork down on the sides of his bowl. He rests his elbows on the table in a way that reminds Derek of a typical movie villain.

"No, thanks," Stiles replies quickly before moving to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water.

"Stiles, honey, you need to have something for dinner," Claudia says softly, and with his back to them, Stiles sighs deeply.

"I'll eat later. I'm not hungry now."

Derek can practically taste the lie. No way can a teen who is practically skin and bones seriously not be hungry. Stiles' weight must be so under the health line that Derek is surprised the teens mother hasn't already done anything more drastic. Clearly, just asking the boy to eat as a strategy is not working anymore.

None the less, Stiles disappears from the kitchen on an empty stomach after saying he can't even sit with the four as he is in the middle of homework.

*****

Insomnia is something that Stiles is no stranger to. With a head riddled with nightmares and a mind that never seems to stop running, sleep is something that Stiles doesn't have often. It's been going on long enough now that Stiles is able to run on little sleep with no problem, and if no one brings up the bruises under his eyes, it's like he can pretend this problem doesn't exist.

Last night was no different. Stiles stayed up simply because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help but feel like he was sleeping in some kind of hospital. All the white furniture practically glowed in the dark, glaring at him like beams of light.

In the end, a few hours before he assumes someone will wake up on the bright Saturday morning, Stiles begins to unpack one of his boxes in his quest to find his posters and sketches. He hangs them up on the walls all around the room, unorganised and messy, making the walls less plain.

By about 5:30, Stiles gives up on trying to find his box of books to fill his shelves and is in serious need of a cigarette. He grabs his sketch book and pencils before descending downstairs.

Even with the morning sun glowing through the tall windows, peaking through the gaps in the closed curtains, the house still doesn't sit right. It's too big, and considering the sizes of the rooms, they seem to all be bare and plain. He walks slowly through the silent house, thankful for the too-big wool socks he's wearing so his bare feet don't create an echo. The stairs don't creak or moan as he walks down them like his old home used to, another thing he isn't sure he can get used to. The kitchen is bright enough to make Stiles groan and squint until his tired eyes adjust. Unsure of how to use the ridiculously flash coffee maker yet, Stiles settles for a glass of water before stepping out of the backdoor and onto the decking that surrounds a large portion of the backside of the house.

The garden is magnificent, and there is no denying that - not matter how much Stiles hates the home. Acres of land stretch back beyond the house, various expenses scattered amongst the fields. At the very end of the seeming never-ending land of the Hale mansion, Stiles recognises a tiled floor from an outdoor basket ball court with two tall hoops on either side and a metal shed towards the back corner. Before the field, is a millionaire-looking swimming pool that is crowded with fancy sun beds and diving boards. Flower beds and thick hedges surround the private land as well as a low fence that subtly separates the garden from the surrounding woods.

It all looks like something out of a Hollywood film, or a holiday home in the Canadian mountains.

His stomach growls, a spiking ache making itself known in the pit of his abdomen, but Stiles ignores it as he plunks himself down on the decking steps that lead down to a BBQ area and picnic tables. With shaking hands, he pulls out a cigarette from the small, cardboard box and lights it between his lips. He knows the consequences of smoking, and he will never forget the look on his fathers face when he caught him, finding out his 15 year old son is smoking, but Stiles didn't stop after that. Sure, he promised his father he would try, and he did, but smoking seems to be the only to stop his hands from visibly trembling uncontrollably and his overactive mind from tormenting him like it does during sleepless nights.

After taking a long drag and breathing out the smoke, he opens up the almost filled sketch book, old and worn and breaking at the spine. When it opens it, the pages are close to coming lose from being dragged around with him everywhere for the past six months, shoved into bags and ran through all weathers. This sketchbook specifically has been aimed at portraits, filled with drawings of his mother, of Scott and Lydia. Stiles is thankful for his friends. As annoying as they are, they make good subjects. He flips to the page that is particularly his favourite, just because it was well done. It's a simple drawing, outside on the snowy streets of Beacon Hills last year, just his two friends siting on a bench. The memory of that moment wasn't even anything special, and if anything the day was a total disaster from sitting out in the snow for so long, but the simplicity of the drawing, the scene and the idea of what could have been happening in that moment make it seem like the most beautiful times of Stiles' life.

Many of his pages are taken up by not whole portraits, but focal points; like jawlines, hands, sometimes the way lips curve with a smile or even the occasional hair style that stood out. The latter is mostly taken up by his mothers as her long, wavy, auburn hair has always been fun to draw.

Stiles turns to an unfinished portrait of Scott's recent girlfriend, Kira. The Japanese teen had unknowingly been Stiles' focus when he drew her. At the time, the group of them hd been at school on lunch break, sitting down in the courtyard when Stiles brought the book up on his knees, having the perfect view of the teenage girl he'd started to draw. It had began with her eyes, the slanted, relaxed shape of them as she bathed in the midday sun, sparking with wonder and wisdom. It then lead to drawing her entire face, crafting the perfect shape of her jaw and nose, and then Stiles finally began to add the hair, which now is only a light outline. Stiles holds the rolled paper and tobacco between his lips as he drags the pencil down the paper, carving the shading of Kira's waving, dark hair that cascades down her shoulders. Around him, the birds chirp and sing mindlessly.

It almost feels peaceful.

Almost.

*

Derek groans as he surfaces to the land of consciousness, and suspects his family have not roused from sleep too after a glance at his clock that informs him it's only 6:54 in the morning. Flabbergasted that he's even woken up that early on a Saturday, Derek tries to fall back to sleep, only to find he's too awake and no longer has any linger of slumber clinging to him.

Rolling out of bed and exiting his room, Derek makes his way downstairs to the familiar kitchen in serious need of coffee. The sun glares through the kitchen window above the sink, promising Derek a day of practicing basket ball in the garden.

While the coffeemaker brews, Derek notices the back door is ajar. The teen frowns, confused, before making his way to the back door. He flings it open abruptly in attempt to frighten any unwanted trespassers - something that is not unheard of as they're in the middle of the forest - but instead, Derek hears a startled cry and the sound of a glass being knocked over.

It takes Derek a moment to recognise the figure sitting on the decking steps as Stiles before teen even turns around, looking at Derek with a mixture of surprise and anger merged into a stealthy glare. The teen dumps a battered, thick black book down on the wooden planks before rising to his feet, his fingers plucking small shards of glimmering glass from the decking before making his way to the house. Stiles' head is bowed, eye contact avoided at all costs.

Derek moves out of the way just enough for the younger boy to get through the backdoor as he makes his way to the bin in the corner, and dumps the broken shards of glass inside.

"You haven't even lived in this house for 24 hours, and you're already breaking stuff?" Derek says, and while it was meant to come out light and humoured, it comes out gruff and hostile.

"I'm sure your daddy can replace it," Stiles replies coldly, not looking up as he wipes his hand on his grey tracksuit leg. Derek's eyes catch the red smear that freshly stains the grey fabric, and he realises that Stiles most likely cut his hand picking up the shards of broken glass.

"Idiot," Derek mutters, not even realising he'd said out loud until the teen shoots him a unamused glare before making his way outside into the garden, actually shutting the door properly with a soft click behind him.

Derek scoffs at the teenagers arrogance, rolling his eyes, and pouring his mug of steaming coffee. He takes his coffee upstairs to drink while he brushes his teeth and throws on his basket ball kit. He downs the coffee like it doesn't scorch his throat and mouth and makes his way back downstairs.

The fresh air of the morning has a slight bitter bite to it, causing goosebumps to rise on Derek's arm but he doesn't mind, knowing the coolness will help stop him from overheating. He walks straight past the Stilinski boy, who hasn't moved from the spot on the stairs. Derek grimaces, and slightly overreacts when he coughs after walking through a cloud of nicotine smoke.

He's never understood smoking. For something so advertised to be addictive, deadly and life-ruining, why did people even try it? Derek has been called a health-freak in the past, and he ignores the teasing about his obsessive need to be healthy and fit, but smoking is just something he can't get his head around.

Stiles is too young anyway. Derek barely knows the kid, he's only seen him around school a few times, but he can see the self-destruction in him - even from a distance. The smell of nicotine sticks to him like a second skin, the bruises under his eyes are like stains and the slump of his shoulders seem to be a permanent weight.

Derek takes his frustration out on the basket ball as he throws it around, smacking it on the court floor hard and propelling it towards the hoop.

 

Kitchens in the morning are chaos, as they are in every family household, but mornings in the Hale mansion is like a war zone. With Robert trying to make his coffee and read his newspaper, while demanding peace and quiet that is never met as Derek and Cora argue over something miniscule.

"Just have some toast, Cora," Robert sighs, exasperated, looking a moment away from rolling his eyes at his children arguing over Derek finishing the cereal.

"What?! How is that fair?" Cora shouts, throwing the empty cereal box at Derek.

It hits him square in the face, but knocks over his glass of orange juice that spills across the entire table.

Including Robert's newspaper.

"Cora!" Robert roars, jerking back and skidding on the chair, the legs squeaking on the floor. After checking his suit, he gingerly picks up the sodden paper by the corner, grimacing with a angry frown. The mass of soggy paper then tears, landing in a wet pile on the floor with a disgusting squelch.

Cora looks a cross between pleased and guilty, shooting Derek a cold glare, who looks smug in the corner.

Claudia, who's witnessed the entire scene play out comically, finally steps away from the coffee maker.

"Okay," she starts, "Cora, I'll go to town in a bit and get you some more cereal, and Robert, love," she places her hands on either of Robert's shoulders, forcing him to look at her, "I'll also get you a new newspaper, alright? Drink your coffee, you'll be late for your conference."

Cora huffs in response, stomping out of the kitchen and up to her room in a teenage tantrum while Claudia begins to soak up the spilled orange juice from the table.

The sun shines through the kitchen window, glistening onto the island counter, when Stiles walks through the backdoor moments later.

"Morning, Stiles," Robert says tensely.

His mother looks up, a smile growing on her face. "Morning, love. I didn't realise you were outside. Do you want some breakfast?"

Stiles shakes his head wordlessly, eyes flitting to the wet table, to Robert, his mother, and for a nanosecond, to Derek. And then they're directed back on the floor.

Claudia doesn't seem fazed. "We're going to town in a bit. Would you like to come?"

"No thanks," Stiles replies. He's got his sketchbook clutched to his chest, and swallows thickly.

Derek shovels down the remains of his milk-sodden cereal, standing up and holding his bowl in one hand. He places the empty bowl in the sink when he's finished moments later, he dashes back out to the garden, still dressed in his kit from earlier.

*

Stiles waits until his mother and Robert walk out the front door before he feels like he can finally breath.

He watches the front door finally close, his mothers call of goodbye ringing in his ears as they leave.

The teen sighs where he's standing. He sets his sketchbook down on the mahogany table at the bottom of the stairs that has a large vase on it's top, overflowing with a range of flowers that Stiles, as intelligent as he is, can't identify. He doesn't know where Cora is, but he thinks it's safe to assume the teenager is going to be staying upstairs for a while - of the argument in the kitchen that Stiles overheard was anything to go by. He glances around the large, oversized main room of the house. He doesn't even know how to describe it. It's like a foyer, a lounge, a corridor and a hall all in one. So large, the first room you walk into through the front door yet the room that leads to every other. His peering eyes repel the fancy furniture and instead, are drawn to a white painted wooden door in the corner of the room, parallel to the stairs and tucked away behind the loveseat.

Inside, Stiles discovers a library. He grins with excitement; maybe this house does have one perk.

He steps inside.

The library is small and has wall-high bookshelves. Each shelf covered in hundreds of books, stacked hazardously. The dark wooden floor boards and book-covered walls do nothing to help open up the space, but Stiles finds it cosy. Unlike the rest of the house, the library doesn't have full length windows that bleed light into the room. Instead, there are circular windows dotted along two of the walls, high and unreachable from the floor. The room isn't stark white with fancy furniture. In fact, it looks as if it hasn't been entered in years and when Stiles walks in further, he sees a red and green tartan patterned reading chair that has been discarded in the corner.

Stiles comes to the conclusion that none of the Hale's clearly read, because when he walks closer to the first book shelf, he can see a layer of dust that has settled along the tops of the books and visible wood of the shelves. He runs his finger through it, lifting them to find a thick collection of grey, fluffy dust collected on the pads of his fingers. Stiles looks up in awe at the ceiling-high shelves above his head and he has no idea in the world how he's going to get the books down, but he is determined and so damn excited to read them.

He walks, fingers running along the spines of the books. He is astonished to find them in alphabetical order, something he notices when he's finished walking around the room. He also frowns, confused as to why, and whom, would actually spend the time putting all the books in such a specific order. Even Stiles doesn't think he's ever been bored enough to find the time to do something like that.

Standing in the middle of the room, staring at the books, Stiles feels more at home than he has done in the past 24 hours of being inside the hell house. The smell of old books and wood gives him some kind of sense of comfort that none of the other rooms have given him.

He grabs a random book from the first shelf; _East of Eden_ by John Steinbeck.

Stiles drops down in the reading chair, grimacing slightly when the dust flies into the air like water on a vibrating speaker.

The chair, despite the dust, is very comfy, Stiles practically melts into it. He slings his legs over the arm rest, left shoulder resting against the cushioned back. He opens the book, flipping the pages that feel like soft silk under his thin fingers, and begins reading.

The rest of the summer continues as it had. Stiles spends his time in his room or in the library when his mother and the Hales are home. His nose is constantly buried in a book, whether that be a cheap paperback from his own shelves, or his worn sketch book, or a leather bound ancient novel from the Hale library.

He avoids his mother and Robert like the plague. It appears to be easier than it sounds, because his mother is so intent on spending every moment she can with Robert she barely seems to notice Stiles slipping away at every available moment. In the last 3 weeks of summer, Stiles spends a total of 4 meals with the Hale family: one breakfast, and three dinners.

He spends every other moment in his room or out with Lydia and Scott. The three of them, sometimes accompanied by Allison or Erica and Boyd, spend summer days in Scott’s back garden or Lydia’s house, or at the sandy beach a few towns over. In the evenings, they gather around Lydia’s fire pit in her yard, or watch movies in Erica and Boyd’s apartment that they bought at the beginning of summer. They binge watch TV shows, smoke cigarettes (Stiles, Erica and Boyd) and play video games.

Sometimes, when he's with them, Stiles can almost forget how fucked up he is.

 

_— tbc._


	2. stronger than vodka

****On the last week of August, Stiles is invited to Danny's party.

He goes straight from Scott’s, where he’d slept over the night before. They’re picked up by Lydia and Allison, the pair of girls in the front seat while Kira is tucked in the back.

"Who’s ready to part-aay?!" Lydia shouts when the pair clamber in the back. Stiles averts his eyes in time to miss Scott and Kira’s makeup (though he can un-doubtfully _hear_ it), and leans through the gap between the two front seats.

"How far is Danny’s house?"

"Not far," Allison replies, beamingly. "He lives in Beacon Hills, near Jackson."

"Right," Stiles nods, and then turns to Lydia as the teen switches the gears and rolls the car off the drive, "Can I smoke in here?"

"Nope," Lydia replies instantly. "I’ve always said I’m not going to pester you anymore about the dangers and _long-lasting_ effects of smoking," Lydia emphasises her words dramatically, and Stiles has to refrain from rolling his eyes, "and in return, you do not smoke in my car."

Stiles nods his head, he can respect that. He’s been friends with Lydia a few years ever since they started high school together, and despite Stiles being a year younger than everyone else, Lydia, Scott, Allison and Kira certainly don’t treat him like it.

It always surprises him that Lydia still hangs out with them. He knows she’s incredibly close to Allison, but she’s also dating Jackson Whittemore, who no doubt would enjoy smashing Stiles’ head into a curb any day. Lydia is part of the 'popular' gang, she’s dating the Lacrosse captain, she’s friends with everyone and walks the school halls like she owns them, yet she still hangs out with them.

It makes him feel warm inside every time he thinks about it, because Lydia must _really_ like them to break away from her queen-bee lifestyle to turn up to the last party of the summer with them instead of with Jackson and his goons.

It also dawns on Stiles than Danny is a senior, which means the party is going to be packed with seniors, sophomores and juniors. Which also means that Stiles is definitely going to be the youngest partier there, so blending in is going to be as hard, if not harder than it is most days in the school corridors. Stiles is going to need to fit in, and he thinks he might.

He looks down at his faded black skinny jeans, rolled up to reveal his hightop converse. His faded navy hoodie underneath the washed out blue denim jacket Scott gave him last year as a hand-me-down gift. He’s probably underdressed, and feels it when he looks at Scott’s button up shirt and straight black jeans, his hair gelled more than usual.

Stiles shrugs it off, he might look casual but at least he’s warm.

They’re pulling up outside minutes later, spilling out of the car and walking up the modernly wide and large steps up to the front door.

Danny's house is huge, like a large modern house in the Bahamas. It was all open planned, long windows, white walls and pale flooring. It’s lit with soft wall lamps, green plants decorating the table tops and shelves. Music blared out of the speakers, the bass vibrating through Stiles' chest from the the floor through his feet the moment he steps into the house.

It’s crowded,

"Scott! Lydia!"

Stiles looks to find Erica coming towards them, dressed in something so small and tight it’s practically a second skin, beaming in the low light.

"Erica, my gal!" Lydia replies, hugging the blonde when she’s close enough.

"You guys took your time," Erica says.

"Fashionably late, Erica," Lydia corrects, smiling smugly. "Have you seen Jackson?"

"Last time I saw him he was bitching with Isaac about the last lacrosse game," Erica replies, moments before Lydia’s nodding and disappearing into the sway of the crowd. Erica rolls her eyes, face breaking out into a sudden smile, "Stiles! Baby, I didn’t know you were coming!"

Stiles finds himself smiling too, accepting the hug Erica leaps at him. "Hey, Erica."

"I see you dressed up," she laughs, pulling back and eyes racking him up and down. "Only you, Stiles Stilinski, can pull of the emo, over-sized tumblr look."

Stiles barks a laugh. "Thanks. . . I think."

"It’s a compliment, kid," Erica reassures. "Seriously, anyone else that tries to wear stuff like that looks like a tramp."

Stiles laughs awkwardly, ignoring every will to curl into a dark corner and cover himself.

"Drinks!" Erica suddenly bursts, "You guys need drinks. What do you like?"

"Beer," Scott replies.

Stiles nods. "Beer for me too."

"Fuck me," Erica rolls her eyes, "boys are so _boring_. Come on, Allison, help me and we’ll pick out something more exciting."

The blonde grabs Allison by the hand and drags the smaller teen away.

Scott chuckles at the pair before grabbing Kira around the waist and Stiles around the shoulder, pulling them further into the house. They find the couches towards the back garden, two facing each other in front of a window-wall that looks over a blue-lit pool outside.

Allison and Scott drop down on one, Kira practically sitting in Scott’s lap, while Stiles sits at the end of the other one, resisting tucking his feet under himself.

A beer bottle drops in lap, and he looks up to see Erica standing, a red solar cup in her hand. She winks at him, ruffling his hair before dropping down next to him, Allison taking a seat next to Scott and Kira, who are _still_ lip-locking.

"Ahem!" Erica coughs, loudly, and Scott and Kira break away, turning to look at her. "Oh, guys, it’s great to see your faces! It’s been so long."

Scott rolls his eyes and Kira laughs sheepishly, sliding slowly so she’s less in Scott’s lap and more resting against his side.

Erica is smirking smugly. "So, Kira, how was Japan?"

Stiles ends up tuning out. He loves Kira, but her trip to Japan for the whole summer makes his stomach twist with bitter envy. He misses his own family holidays, and he knows it’s selfish for him to be annoyed at other people for having them. He realises that’s why he gets along so well with Lydia and Erica; both of them have shitty parents they never see. There is no family holidays, or family meal time with them, and because of this, they don’t pry into Stiles’.

A light punch to his shoulder jerks him out of his thoughts. He looks to Erica, surprised.

"Stop tuning out," she barks, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbles, take a sip of his beer, the bitter liquid washing back down his throat.

Erica bumps her shoulder into his, flashing him a grin, "Don’t apologise, kid. Just stop daydreaming."

Stiles smiles back, looking back down at his hands in his lap. He takes another swig of his beer.

"So, hey, Stiles," he looks up at the mention of his name, flashing a smile when Kira sends him on, "How’s the Hale house?" She asks.

Stiles shrugs, feeling his cheeks heat slightly. It’s been half a month since he moved into the Hale house, and he doesn’t know how exactly to describe it. It’s huge, it’s grand. It’s any persons dream to live in the place he has to call 'home'. But he isn’t happy, was that selfish? Was he being selfish by putting his own feelings before his mothers? Was he being ungrateful?

"It’s pretty big," Stiles finally says.

"It’s a mansion," Lydia adds, appearing out of nowhere and standing behind the couch Stiles and Erica at sitting on. "Literally, a _mansion_."

"Have you been inside?" Erica yelps.

Lydia shakes her head, "Of course not."

"Does your mum like it?" Kira asks, leaning forward with her elbows on her needs and wearing a comforting smile. Stiles envies the soft edges of his face that make her look so kind and gentle _all the time_. He has an impulsing want to pick up his sketchbook and draw her.

"Of course she likes it," Stiles scoffs, taking a generous, and slightly aggressive, swig of his beer. His mother is so blinded by the money and fancy foods and surprise presents the she can’t see the real serpent in the house: Robert.

"You know, you shouldn’t waste this opportunity, Stiles," Lydia says, dropping down next to Erica and crossing her bare legs. "Your mother might have this man wrapped around her little finger. Use it to your advantage."

Stiles frowns, "Uh, how?"

"Uh, _hello_ ," Lydia drones, as if it’s obvious, "This guy has money overflowing from his wallet. He has a huge mansion. He adores your mum. He will do _anything_ to make her happy, and your mum will do anything to make _you_ happy. So, put it together and you have a rich man at your disposal."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I don’t want his money. What would I do with loads of money?"

"Fuck sake, Stiles," Lydia rolls her eyes too, "What teenager doesn’t want money?"

"Yeah, imagine everything you could buy!" Allison pipes up.

"Oh yeah?" Stiles raises an eye brow, "Like what?"

"To be honest, your shoes look like they could use replacing," Lydia comments.

"Jeez," Stiles sighs, "Girls and their shoes."

Lydia smirks in reply, taking a sip of her drink through her stripy straw.

The party is much more crowded than it had been when they arrived. Bodies sway with the music, their skin covered in a film of sweat but their foggy, alcohol induced minds must be too unfocused to be fussed. He had assumed right: almost everyone here are seniors and sophomores Stiles recognises from the halls of Beacon Hills High. Some Stiles doesn’t recognise, and he supposes that makes sense: Danny is a popular guy, it wouldn’t be surprising that he has friends outside of the BHHS cliques.

As everyone talks around him, Stiles doesn’t realise how much time has passed before he’s lifting the bottle to his lips again, for an uncountable time, and finds it empty. He frowns, glancing at his friends.

As he stands, he says, "I’m gonna go and get another beer."

His friends nods and murmur in acknowledgement. Stiles turn and starts through the crowd, wondering where the drinks might even be. Kitchen is probably his best bet, he decides as he moves and weave through the dancing and collated bodies.

After a few minutes of walking, Stiles finds himself back at the front door, cursing the size and complexity of Danny’s house. He sees, through an archway, a pair of girls stumbling in heels and giggling. In their hands, are a pair of bottles, their caps still locked. Stiles takes his beats and heads in their direction, passing them and walking in the room they came from.

Bingo.

The kitchen was a little smaller than the Hale’s, cupboards a matt off-white with dark handles. Bottles are stacked like a bar along ever surface of the worktops. Alcohol of every kind, spirits and wines and kegs of beer. 

The choice of drink is tempting, but Stiles just grabs a bottle of beer from the counter and rummages around for a bottle opener.

After what feels like hours of looking with no luck, a voice behind him says, "Need any help?

Stiles spins around and is greeted by a dirty blonde, sharp faced teen. He looks a few years older than Stiles, maybe Scott’s age - which isn’t surprising when Stiles is actually meant to be a freshman, so everyone here is going to be older than him. The teen wearing a tight burgundy t-shirt that sucks onto the toned, muscle arms that are wide with muscle.

Stiles doesn’t recognise him at all.

"Here," he says, pulling out a key ring of keys from his jean pocket. Stiles eyes it suspiciously as the teen walks forward, the small pieces of metal swaying and clinking with one another. He places his hand on the bottle in Stiles’ hand, fingers brushing his own as he brings his keys to the rim of the bottle. Stiles finally notices the miniature bottle opener as the boy opens the bottle top with a flick of his wrist. Stiles watches closely, unable to tear his eyes away from the flex and movement of hand muscles under the others boys skin of his hand.

"There you go," the guy says, flashing him a toothy smile, his white, straight teeth glinting in the bright kitchen lights.

Stiles nods his head in thanks and lifts the open bottle to take a drink. The teen watches Stiles as he does so, and Stiles has never felt so self-conscious about how he drinks from a bottle. He feels his cheeks burn red, and he quickly turns around, walking back and jumping up to sit on the worktop. He sits, legs dangling and bottle loosely clasped between his hands, with no content to leave.

"My names Theo, by the way," the guy says.

Stiles nods, "Stiles."

Theo hums, strolling slowly over to the island unit in front of Stiles, opening the cardboard lid of the pizza box, and pulling out a slice. "What a strange name."

"Not as strange as my real one," Stiles replies with a scoff.

"And what is that?"

"You wouldn’t believe me if I told you."

Theo grins at that. He gestures to the pizza in his hand, "Want some?"

Stiles shakes his head. "No, thanks."

"You know, it’s not wise to eat on an empty stomach," Theo says, taking a generous bite.

"I ate before I came," Stiles replies. Lie. He hasn’t eaten all day - which he wasn’t sure is wise or not.

Theo hums again, and Stiles doesn’t know what to translate that into. "Aren’t you a bit young to be here?"

"Is it that obvious?" Stiles raises an eyebrow, taking a drink of beer as if to emphasise his point.

"Well, you’re pretty hard to miss," Theo replies quietly, and then he shrugs, "and it’s also been mentioned that you’re already a junior even though you’re only 15."

"I’m not a junior _yet_ ," Stiles corrects. Technically, he’s not a junior until the following Monday when he actually starts the school yet. He resists the urge to smirk at Theo’s blank expression. "You’re new here, aren’t you?"

Theo nods, "Moved to Beacon Hills last Thursday. Danny invites me to come tonight, but big crowds aren’t really my thing."

"Join the club," Stiles mutters into the rim of the beer bottle before he throws back a mouthful.

"Is that why you’re hiding in the kitchen?"

"I’m not hiding," Stiles replies.

Theo looks at him for a long moment before he’s moving suddenly, saying, "Come on."

"What? Where?"

"Anywhere you want," Theo replies, with a shrug, "We obviously both hat parties, so why stay? Grab another few bottles of beer and follow me."

Stiles doesn’t think twice. He grabs another four bottles of beer, downing the rest of his half-full open one before dumping it on the side and following Theo back through the party. The air is so much thicker now, hot and suffocating. It feels like hours before they stumble out the front door, gulping mouthfuls of the fresh, cool summer evening air.

"So," Theo says, walking down the pathway and standing in the driveway where a black SUV is parked. He looks back, walking backwards as he says to Stiles, "Where’d you wanna go?"

Stiles follows him, beers in his hands. He comes to a stop on the last step, looking over at Theo and shrugs.

Theo chuckles at that, apparently finding the younger teens short and silent answers amusing.

"Why don’t we go back to my place," Theo offers, "My parents are out for the night. We’ll have the place to ourselves."

Stiles thinks about this for a moment. The he’s drunk has barely touched his system, but he has to wonder if his head is clear enough. Is this a good idea? He’s only just met this guy, and surely that should ring bold alarm bells in his head. But he doesn’t feel unsafe, there’s something about Theo that makes him feel secure again.

Maybe the alcohol is affecting him more than he thought.

None the less, Stiles nods. "Sure. Let’s go to your house."

Theo smiles widely, and still feels like he’s been punched in the gut. The blonde teen pulls out his keys again, and the SUV unlocks before Theo is opening the passenger door, motioning for Stiles to get in.

"Didn’t count you for a gentleman," Stiles says as he steps up to the car. "You haven’t drank tonight have you?"

"I don’t think you want me to answer that," Theo replies, and Stiles stares at him for a moment before he decides that he can’t be asked to ruin the moment, and climbs inside the car.

Theo flashes him a grin through the window as he rounds the car bonnet and hops in the drivers side.

Stiles watches the houses and cars drive by, flashing in unfocused blurs. He suddenly realises the radio is playing a soft tune, and instantly Stiles recognises it, soon finding himself humming to it.

Theo turns to him. "You know this song?"

"You don’t?" Stiles replies. "I’m not surprised actually. I’ve been trying to get my friends to listen to Kodaline for ages."

"Kodaline?" Theo echoes, "Is that the band?"

Stiles nods. "I really like them," he murmurs, looking down at his hands in his lap.

Theo hums, and the car falls silent again. He turns up the radio a moment later, and neither of them say anything about it.

Stiles has no idea how much time passes before they’re pulling into a driveway before a dark house. Stiles should feel nervous, he knows this. He shouldn’t be so comfortable with walking into a strangers house, alone.

Was Theo still a stranger?

Once inside, Theo leads him into the kitchen, flipping a single switch so half the first floor becomes alive with light. It’s a simple family house. A cosy lounge with worn sofas, a large kitchen with a fridge full of notes and magnets. The hallway still has boxes stacked up, evident that they haven’t gotten around to fully moving in yet.

"D’you want anything to eat?" Theo asks.

Stiles shakes his head. "No, thanks."

"Don’t like food?"

"What makes you say that?"

Theo just smiles at him, "I don’t think you need reminding."

Stiles has never been more thankful. Almost everyone he’s denied food from has gone on a tangent with him, explaining the need and importance of food and going on about how 'skinny' he is.

But Theo doesn’t.

"How about we just go upstairs," Theo says. "You still got the beers?"

Stiles nods, lifting up the bottles still clasped in his hands. Theo smiles at him before grabbing Stiles by the wrist, with a light, soft touch, before leading him out of the kitchen and through the dark house. Stiles keeps his eyes on the hand clasped around his wrist, sending warm waves up his arm.

Up the stairs, Stiles is guided into an average sized bedroom. When the light is switched on, it reveals a double bed in the middle of the room, a desk and a chest of draws to one side and a wardrobe on the opposite. Boxes are dotted around the room, the desk is cluttered with books and the bed is made with dozens of pillows and blankets.

Within the next half an hour, three beer bottles are drained dry. Theo is laying on his stomach on his bed, arms dangling over the edge and his chin resting on the edge of the bed. Stiles is rolling on the floor, curled in and having a fit of laughter about the story Theo tells him where he’d gone to his neighbours birthday party and started skateboarding in the drained swimming pool. The story ends with his snobby neighbour having a broken, bloody nose and Theo’s skateboard being taken away. None the less, Stiles finds it hilarious.

Probably too hilarious.

Definitely too hilarious.

But what’s the harm done?

Stiles has never been one for sleeping around. In fact, he’s never had a chance to sleep around, as he’s never had a relationship past the 'friend zone'. The only people he has ever kissed is Erica, who kissed him simply so he could know what it was like, and Isaac Lahey, before he became cool and started hanging around with Jackson and Derek. But neither had escalated into anything.

So, as Charlie Sheen once said; _the best way to avoid a broken heart is to pretend you don’t have one_. That’s Stiles moto, and that is what leads him to sneaking out of Theo’s bedroom at 7:24 in the morning, shoes untied and jacket in hand.

Stumbling out fo the room while trying to tie his trainer, Stiles glances down the shadowed hallway and winces when the floorboards creak loudly when he puts his foot down.

He can’t go this way - he woke up to the sound of people coming in the front door, and Stiles can only assume it was Theo’s parents, a _clear_ indication that it is time for Stiles to leave.

Completely scraping the idea of going through the front door, Stiles goes for the cliche escape of through the window.

Of course, Theo’s window just has to be on the second floor with no leverage attached and when the sleeping teen behind him groans, Stiles practically leaps out of the window. It occurs to him while he’s falling that the front door is most likely locked anyways, but that brings him no comfort when he lands flat on the balls of his feet. He could have been proud of his steady landing, if it wasn’t for the sharp pain that shoots up his calfs like volts, causing him to crumble on the grassy floor in a silent cry. It takes him a few minutes, a few agonising minutes, but sooner or later he is on his trek home.

The morning sun is high in the sky and Stiles is thankful it’s summer, otherwise the cold, bitter air of winter would have him in the worst mood along with his pounding headache and twisted ankles. He is in serious need of a nap and some aspirin.

He shrugs on his denim jacket, snuggling into the worn fur around the collar. He stuffs his hands not his pockets and fishes out a box of cigarettes. He puts the rolled paper between his lips, flicking the end of the lighter and taking a drag of the temporary painkiller.

The sun is blinding in his eyes, worsening his moon until he reaches the shortcut through the preserve and leads straight to the Hale house. The wooded area is more shaded and doesn’t make his eyes strain so much, so he can look ahead without feel like his eyes are being burned in his eye sockets.

Hangovers are the worst.

And he’s run out of cigarettes.

By the time he’s home, he assumes it’s gone eight and the pounding behind his eyes has multiplied by a significant amount. None the less, he is not overly pleased to be greeted by his mother, who storms out of the kitchen the moment Stiles clicks the front door closed.

"Where the hell have you been?" Claudia asks, eyes narrowed and jaw sharp. Her cheeks are tinted red and Stiles is pretty sure, if she was a cartoon then smoke would be coming out of her ears - she looks _that_ furious. She’s dressed in a silk dressing gown that he’s never seen before. Actually, come to think of it, he hasn’t recognised any of his mothers clothes she’s been wearing since she left his father.

"I told you," Stiles replies, voice more hoarse than he’d shamelessly admit, "I was at a friends."

"Yes, and that was last night," Claudia snaps. "Where were you this morning? Why didn’t you _come home?_ Why didn’t you _tell_ me if you were staying out?"

"I’m pretty you sure you wouldn’t want me sneaking in at three in the morning and waking you guys up," Stiles replies, heavy with an exasperated sigh, "Lord knows Robert needs his precious beauty sleep."

His mother’s jaw is clenched so hard Stiles is pretty sure he can hear her teeth grinding together. "Stop avoiding the question, Stiles. Where were you?"

"I told you, a friends house," Stiles replies. Not a lie - technically.

His mother rubs her forehead, sighing. "Stiles, please, don’t lie to me."

"It’s not a lie!" Stiles cries. "I was at a friends house? What else is there to say?"

"Who?"

"Scott’s. You’ve been fine with me staying at his all summer."

"I know you weren’t at Scott’s because Melissa told me earlier this week that he was going to a party," Claudia replies. "Were _you_ at this party?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It matters because I need to know where you are. Especially if you’re going to be out drinking underage, which is illegal!"

"So is having an affair," Stiles snaps, flashing a shit-eating grin. He knows it’s a low blow, and it even hurts him a little to say it. He shouldn’t sure his father as ammo against his mother. The words taste bitter on his tongue, like left out wine.

His mother goes still as soon as the words are out. "What did you just say?"

Stiles swallows thickly, his throat suddenly tight. "You heard me."

Claudia’s eyes are wide. Impossibly wide.

"Don’t you dare—"

"Don’t dare what?" Stiles cuts her off suddenly, coldly, words like knives. "Huh? Is the truth too hurtful, _mother?"_

Claudia looks like she is _vibrating_ , shaking so hard with fury that she could come apart like a lose screw. Her mouth opens and closes, speechless.

It’s like a punch to Stiles’ gut and suddenly the alcohol in his stomach from the night before rolls in nauseating waves. He’s gonna throw up if he doesn’t get away soon.

"I’m going to my room," he blurts abruptly, dashing past his mother and heaving towards the stairs.

"No!" Claudia explodes. "Stiles, come back here!"

Stiles ignores her, almost half way up the stairs with rushed, desperate footsteps.

"Do not walk away from me, Stiles. Get down here right now!" She shouts.

Tears well in Stiles eyes as he reaches the top step. He stuffs his shaking hands into his jacket pockets as he dashes down the corridor to his room, ducking his head when he passes Cora, who’s standing in her doorway dressed in pyjamas, her glare so cold Stiles can feel the icicles forming on his back. He slams the bedroom door behind him, and realises it’s a huge mistake. Not a good idea for a hangover.

Stiles quickly strips his jeans and jacket, sliding on a pair of green and blue tartan sweatpants before practically collapsing into bed. He’s passed out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

*

Cora does not appreciate the early wake call from Claudia and her son - that is too young for hangovers and parties anyways!

Knowing she isn’t going to be getting back to sleep anytime soon, she throws back the covers and gets up. The sun streams from behind her bedroom blinds brightly and she grumbles as she storms downstairs.

She finds Claudia sitting at the breakfast bar, a glum look on her ageing face.

"Morning," the older woman says softly, and Cora has to bite her tongue not to _snap_ at her. She’s always hated the kind, soft motherly act Claudia has been holding up that she only seems to direct at Cora and Derek, and not her own son.

No wonder the child is a miserable brat, Cora realises.

"Did Stiles wake you up?" Claudia asks as Cora pulls out a carton of oranges juice from the fridge.

"You both did," Cora replies, taking a large gulp from the carton and ignoring the grimaced and disgusting expression now sporting Claudia’s face. "But, it’s fine. I didn’t want to sleep anyway."

The sarcasm drips from her tone like honey, thick and slow. She can tell Claudia picks up on it by the way her lips thin.

"I’m sorry," Claudia apologises sincerely. "Stiles isn’t always like this."

"Like what?" Cora cocks an eyebrow, taking a seat opposite Claudia before guzzling some more juice. She is very often the only member of the house to drink out of the carton, much to everyone else’s distaste.

"Like an angry little boy," Claudia replies, and Cora notes the cold tone seeping in. "He isn’t always so miserable."

Cora scoffs, finding it hard to imagine the teenager anything other than a permanent tantrum.

"Well, this won’t do," Claudia breaks the silence, jumping up from her bar stool. She places her empty mug into the sink before flying around the kitchen in a flurry to give it a quick clean up. "I’m going to take Robert int town. He’s got a business meeting at nine," Claudia starts, "Would you like to come? We could look around in some of the shops, or—"

"No, thanks," Cora interrupts.

Claudia nods stiffly and Cora avoids any further eye contact as the woman announces her departure and slips from the kitchen.

The teenage girl feels the tension drain out of her shoulders as she slouches against the counter top. The tight conversation with Claudia has brought out her headache again, and Cora seriously regrets even getting out of bed.

She had only met Claudia four times before her father announced her and Stiles were moving in. It took Cora to the third meeting to realise who Claudia’s son was as the boy had never turned up any of the meals. Claudia had hinted her sons slightly uneasy situation and was having problems with dealing with his parents break up, but Claudia didn’t once mention who her ex-husband was until they got deeper into the conversation about Claudia’s career. Cora couldn’t quite believe that her name was Claudia Stilinski after she’d connected all the dots, and that her ex-husband was the one and only Sheriff John Stilinski. The realisation had Cora almost toppling out of her chair at the diner. All Cora could think about how this woman was the ex-wife of the sheriff and how her son was the 15 year-old smoker who showed up in her class even though he is a year younger than her.

Cora had only met Stiles once with his mother, and it was completely without the kids consent.

It had been the second time the four had met. Her, Derek and their father had gone over to Claudia’s for the first time, for a home cooked meal instead of eating out. Stiles hadn’t been there, and Claudia had made up the excuse that her son was away with his father, but the lie was blown the moment Stiles walked in the front door. The teen had looked up in a state of surprise, which soon twisted into a pissed-off expression. Claudia had introduced them all to each other for the mere _three minutes_ that Stiles was actually downstairs, before the teen had silently walked up the stairs, leaving. Less than five minutes later, they had heard the front door opens and closes again, indicating that Stiles had left.

He had not made a good first impression.

"Cora."

The young youth turns to see her father in the kitchen archway. 

"We’re going now," he says. "You sure you don’t want to come?"

Cora shakes her head. "I’m good here."

Robert nods, flashing a tense smile before he’s gone. The sound of the front door opening and closing follows.

The house is silent for less than a minute, until a buzzing sound of a phone vibrating comes from Cora’s pyjama trouser pocket.

"Hey, Ma," she answers.

"Cora, love," her mother’s voice is soft like silk, even through the phone. "How have you been?"

"Could be better," Cora replies, rising from the breakfast bar stool and going to the fridge to return the orange juice. "What about you?"

"Splendid," Talia chirps. Cora isn’t surprised, her mother got the easy escape. "New York is truly beautiful. Very different from Beacon Hills."

Cora hums, moving from where she was leaning against the fridge to sit back at the breakfast bar. "How’s Laura? She fitting into college?"

"You don’t need to worry about Laura; she’s already thrown herself into a large group of friends. She’s recovering from one of their parties right now."

"What a coincidence," Cora replies, "Derek’s recovering from one right now too."

Talia laughs lightly, "The pleasant life of a teenager."

"That will be me in a few years," Cora comments, and she suddenly realises she’s smiling. It feels good to smile, to speak to her mum.

"Don’t remind me," Talia replies. "So, I’m assuming school is okay? When do you go back?"

"Monday."

"Excited?"

"Of course not," Cora scoffs. "What’s exciting about starting junior year?"

"It’s a big year, Cora. Lots of decisions," Talia says.

"Not as many as Derek."

"I’ll need to phone him soon, preferably when he’s not hungover," Talia muses. "Oh! I was thinking, when Malia comes down to visit you guys, if I should try and get her a taster week at Beacon Hills High. Her and Peter don’t like New York."

"Are they going to be moving back?"

"Not to Beacon Hills, but close. Peter doesn’t like the city, and although he doesn’t like Beacon Hills,I know he misses the quiet."

"Mum," Cora sighs, "I don’t think it’s a good idea for Peter and Malia to visit anytime soon."

"What? Why?"

Cora’s heart clenches. She hasn’t seen her mother, sister or her uncle and cousin in months since they moved to New York in last November. Almost a year ago, Cora reminds herself.

"It’s not a good time," she finally manages.

"Cora," her mother speaks with a demanding softness, "has something happened? Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just. . ." Cora breaks off and sighs, "Dad has a new girl friend."

"I know, Cora," Talia replies calmly. "You’re father told me months ago."

"No, but they’ve _moved in_ ," Cora explains. "His girlfriend and her son."

"Oh," Talia replies slowly.

Cora tries to ignore the hitch in her mother’s breathing. She hates speaking to her mother about her father, about the man who broke her heart over countless arguments and lonely nights. Her relationship with her mother and sister has been strained since they moved to New York after Talia divorced Robert. Cora had wanted to go with them, but Talia didn’t want her to have to move schools, not when she’s so close to finishing, and she was told to stay in Beacon Hills with her father and Derek.

"I’m sorry, mum," she says. "I—"

"You have no reason to be sorry, my love," her mother interrupts, soft again. "Is there a problem with your father’s girlfriend? A reason to do with her that Malia can’t come down?"

"No. I just. . . I figured it would be awkward and all. . . with her and her son and all. . ." Cora murmurs, biting her thumb nail.

"Right," Talia sounds pained again. "Is she nice?"

"Who? Claudia?"

"Is that her name?"

Cora has always been fascinated with the way her mother’s voice never portrays an ounce of jealously or annoyance when they talk about stuff like this.

"Yeah, she’s nice. I guess," Cora replies.

"I guess?" Her mother echoes, concern thick in her tone. "Cora, you’d tell me if something was wrong with her, wouldn’t you?"

"Mum, honestly, nothing is wrong with her," Cora sighs, "She’s just got a bad relationship with her son and it’s ruining everything."

"Bad, how?"

"Mum, stop being nosey."

"I’m not. I’m a guidance counsellor, it’s my _job_ to be concerned," Talia replies, and Cora rolls her eyes. "I just want to know about the people my children have to live with."

"Okay. Well, Claudia is a total pushover and her son is an arrogant eye-roller."

Her mother’s laugh is quiet through the phone. "'Arrogant eye-roller’? I bet him and Laura would get along."

"Oh no, mum, this guy is a moody little shit. Laura would hate him."

"Language. I’m sure there’s a reason why. He’s probably just upset about his parent’s breaking up as you were."

"His dad’s dead, mum."

"Well," Talia sounds suddenly off guard, choked. "You can’t blame him for being a bit moody then, can you?"

"His father’s death isn’t an excuse to be an asshole to everyone."

" _Language_ , Cora!" Her mother scolds. Sudden background noise filters through the phone, too static and muffled for Cora to hear what it was. A few moments later, her mother is saying, "Laura’s up, she wants to speak to you."

"Okay," Cora grins, "Bye, mum. Love you."

"I love you too, angel."

Cora gets up, tucking the stool under the counter and leaves the kitchen just before Laura’s loud, bubbly voice comes rasping through the phone.

"Hey, brat!"

*****

Stiles woke up abruptly, and for once, it wasn’t because of a nightmare.

He gasps awake, jerking up right in a flail of skinny limbs and tangled blankets as he is ripped from his sleep. He’s cold and. . . wet? He feels cold droplets running down his face, soaking his hair to his forehead and drenching his jumper. He opens his eyes, looks up and see’s Lydia standing at his bedside, an empty crystal glass in her hand.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," she says, placing the glass on the bedside cabinet, the same hand coming to rest on her hip like a disapproving mother.

"What the hell, Lydia?" He shouts, screwing his eyes shut when his head throbs at the loudness of his own voice. His headache apparently hasn’t been slept off.

Lydia shrugs carelessly, taking a seat on the edge of his bed. "You wouldn’t wake up, so I woke you up."

Stiles throws the covers back and swings his legs over the other side of the bed. His sweatshirt is wet and uncomfortable. "So you threw a glass of cold water over me?"

"It worked, didn’t it?"

Stiles grumbles in response. He strips his sodden hoodie and t-shirt over his head, throwing it on the floor and grabbing another from his draw.

"You should eat more," Lydia says. "You’re probably skinner than me."

 _I was skinnier than you a long time ago, Lyds_ , Stiles thinks. He doesn’t say that, knowing it’s going to cause more problems than solutions. Stiles pulls the top over his head, goosebumps appearing on his chilled skin.

He throws the wet comforter sheet on the floor and turns the wet pillows over, before dropping down back on the bed.

"Why are you here?" Stiles asks sleepily. Despite the abrupt wake up, he still feels half asleep. "I didn’t mean that rudely."

"Of course you didn’t," Lydia replies, pursing her lips and crossing her legs, leaning back on one arm. "I came to make sure you made it home last night and didn’t end up sleeping in a ditch somewhere."

"Uh, thanks."

Lydia looks at him closely. "Where _did_ you go last night?"

"Where? To Jackson’s—"

"No, I mean _after_ ," Lydia corrects. "You went to get a beer and never came back. We thought you’d gotten lost or passed out until Danny told us he’d seen you leave with a guy. Anything you want to add?"

Stiles shifts on the bed. "I met someone who was just as uncomfortable with parties as I was."

Lydia motions with one hand for him to explain further.

"We went back to his house."

Lydia raises a manicured eyebrow, perfect and sharp. She remains silent for a few moments. Stiles’ anxiety grows, his bubble of panic spreading.

"Do I need to give you the sex talk?"

Stiles eyes widen comically. "What?!"

"I’m not going to judge you on your sexuality," Lydia says, and Stiles knows. They’d talked about this when Stiles told her and Scott a year ago. "You can like whoever you want, but, do I need to explain to you how to use a c—"

"I know how!" Stiles yelps.

"Right," Lydia replies, "and you need to use it even if it is a guy, because you can still get—"

"I know, Lydia!" Stiles shouts. He runs a hand through his hair, making the strands of brown stand on end. "Jeez, stop— please!"

Lydia chuckles, clearly pleased with herself. "Glad to hear it. So, did you?"

Stiles shakes his head. "God, no. No, no no no!"

"Oh," Lydia deflates, and then perks up. "Actually, that’s good. I keep forgetting you’re still fifteen."

"Would it be any better if I was sixteen?"

"Well, at least you’d be legal in England."

Stiles scoffs, "Right, so if I want to have sex in the next three years I need to move to England."

Lydia laughs, "That’s precious."

Stiles cocks an eyebrow, face blank and unimpressed.

"So," Lydia starts, relaxing, "What’s the guys name?"

"I am not telling you."

"What?" Lydia leans back, "Why?"

"Because, you’ll stalk him and scare him off," Stiles replies, tone serious. "You have _no idea_ how terrifying you are."

Lydia smiles like it was a compliment. "Just tell me, Stiles."

"Nope," Stiles replies, shaking his head. "Nothing even happened for you to know, okay? We just went back to his place and had a few drinks before we passed out."

"In bed?"

"Lydia," Stiles growls.

Lydia blows out a long breath. "Fine. But, just so you know, you missed out on Scott and Jackson playing beer pong after you ditched."

"I didn’t ditch," Stiles grumbles into his lap. He looks up a moment later, "Who won?"

Lydia snorts, "Jackson, obviously. Scott may be better at lacrosse but his aim is still pathetically bad."

"Don’t worry," Stiles says, leaning back against the headboard. "'m sure they’ll make it into a long lasting rivalry now. You’ll get to see round two at the next party."

Lydia huffs a laugh, nodding. "Right, well, this was fun," she says, standing up and straightening her skirt.

"You’re going?"

"Yep," Lydia replies, popping the 'p'. "Got a shopping date with Allison. I only dropped by to make sure you made it home safe. Can’t have the only person in the entire of high school with the same IQ as me to go missing, can I?"

Stiles snorts, and Lydia ruffles his askew hair before she’s heading to the door.

"See you Monday," she calls.

"Bye, Lyds."

The door closes softly behind her, and Stiles flops forward on the bed. He knows he won’t be getting back to sleep now. He’s far too awake and the headache behind his eyes is throbbing too hard.

He stands up, grabbing a sweater from the floor and the glass Lydia had left on his bedside cabinet, before he makes his way downstairs.

It takes Stiles a painful seven minutes to find a bottle of aspirin. It also doesn’t help that the sun is shining brightly through the large windows, reflecting of _every single_ surface in the room. Stiles swallows the tablets down with a glass of water before he makes his way back upstairs to his bedroom.

He passes Derek on the stairs, and the glare that follows him to his room burns a hole in the back of his head. He closes the door behind him, letting out a heavy sigh as he leans against the wood, closing his eyes.

He really needs a cigarette now.

The familiar sound of his phone buzzing drags the teens attention away from his cravings. He pushes himself off the door and shuffles over to the bed, where his phone lays on the bedside cabinet.

He picks it up, and the lockscreen reads:

_ONE UNREAD MESSAGE - Theo_

Stiles frowns; since when did he have Theo’s number? Better yet, when did Theo get _his_ number?"

Stiles unlocks his hone and reads the message.

_Where did you go this morning?_

Stiles stares at it for a long moment. He replies with the one thing on his mind:

_How did you get my number?!_

_I put it into my phone last night. I assumed you’d want to text, or are you the one night stand kind of guy?_

Nice one, Stiles. Great impression.

The teen mentally slaps himself before typing out a desperate and rushed response.

_Of course not! I’m not like that._

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, grimacing when he realises that he’s in serious need of a wash. He decides to shower later. Showers fix everything.

His phone beeps again.

_Okay. Just checking you made it home :)_

Something about Theo caring about his wellbeing brings a kind of warmth to Stiles’ chest.

_You’re parents were home. I snuck out the window, didn’t want you to get in trouble._

Stiles gets up, suddenly remembering about his backup stash of cigarettes Erica had got him a few weeks ago. He opens the third draw, scrambling through the clothes and at the back, he finds them.

His phone beeps before he has a chance to light one. Stiles leaps at the bed, cigarette between his lips, and swipes the phone off the bed, opening the message eagerly.

_Climbing out of my window already? Didn’t realise we’re part of a cliche love story! ;)_

Stiles has to read the message twice. Three times. Four times.

Did he just say love story? Love?

Stiles replays the word in his head. It brings chills to his skin.

He doesn’t sleep that night. He doesn’t reply to Theo either. He isn’t ready.

 

_— tbc._


	3. happy pills

****Monday comes around far too quickly for Stiles’ liking.

The Stilinski boy blinks rapidly as he stares at the ceiling of his room. The plain, white surface was boring into Stiles’ eyes and he’s been staring at the ceiling for so long he can feel headache brewing behind his eyes. Still, the teen doesn’t move. He’s been staring at the same spot since three am after he woke up from a shrilling nightmare that had him literally scrambling out of the bed in a blind panic. It had taken him almost an hour to calm himself down enough, huddled against his desk, quiet enough not to make too much noise to wake anyone else up, before he crawled back into bed and tried to drown out the reoccurring voices in his head that spun and spun and spun like an endless broken record.

He could still feel the slick wet blood on his hands from his dream. Still warm, fresh from his father’s bleeding body. It flashes behind his eyes like a strobe light, bright and painful and blinding. He clenches his fists in the comforter, knuckles bleeding white with the strain of his grip.

A harsh knock at his door makes him flood with tension, snapping like a branch.

"Get up. School’s in an hour, you’re going to be late."

Stiles closes his eyes at the sound of Robert’s deep voice rumbling through the wooden door. He can’t wait until he’s old enough to move out and get away from these people - or maybe just college.

Another sequence of knocks roar through the door. "Stiles!"

"I’m getting up!" Stiles snaps, voice raspy from the nights events of crying and swallowing his panic. He forces as much venom into his tone, but it comes out flimsy.

He throws back the bed sheets and flings his legs over the side of the bed. Stiles is surprised when Robert doesn’t respond to his 'backtalk', but then again, the man is most likely to keep his tongue tied until his mother and him are on close enough terms to deserve the right to shout at Stiles. No doubt, Stiles is going to get in the neck from his mother when he goes downstairs anyways.

Stiles grabs a pair of skinny jeans (that aren’t actually that skinny) and two sweatshirts from his closet. He slips them on, pulling on a pair of thick socks before he puts his beaten up black converse and tying them up. As he sits on the foot of the bed, fingers entwined with dirty laces, he sees the duffle bag of clothes under his desk. Part of him, in the back of his head, keeps telling him there is no need to unpack it; in a few days, his mother is going to realise her mistake and will move them back into their old home with the small kitchen and the cosy living room with the large fire that Stiles had spent almost every evening of his childhood by, reading a book with his parents. This theory is unlikely to happen, but not impossible.

Stepping out of his bedroom, Stiles walks straight into a solid wall.

Well, that’s what it felt like.

Stiles is knocked back with an undignified 'oof', landing hard on his ass. He looks up and feels his cheeks glow red with embarrassment as Derek looks down on him. Stiles isn’t if it’s the fact that by walking into the older teen has way too much muscle to be normal had knocked him flat on his rear end, or the fact that Derek walks away without a murmur of an apology or offering a hand.

Stiles feels hurt by this for a moment before he grumbles out a curse under his breath, pushes himself up onto his feet and finally makes his way into the bathroom.

Despite living in the Hale mansion for almost a month, Stiles will never get used to the bathroom.

Everything about the Hale mansion is overdone and too expensive to even use. Stiles has rendered away from touching things in the living room or in the kitchen because they look too posh and valuable to even touch.

Stiles stands in front of the mirror that takes up the entire wall above the sink. He runs his fingers through his hair, the ends naturally standing up on end now. He prods the purple half-moons under his eyes, sunken and ugly. His skin is pale, colourless and marked with random dotting’s of brown blemishes and moles.

He tears his eyes away from the mirror, away from his own reflection that makes his stomach tighten and twitch. He brushes his teeth with the toothpaste he bought from the store (he went the day after they moved in, buying his own toothpaste and washing stuff as he didn’t think he would be welcome to use the Hales’).

Back in his bedroom, after a successful trip back from the bathroom that _didn’t_ involve walking into walls or solid blocks of muscle, Stiles packs his rucksack full of his books. He grabs his phone off the nightstand, slipping it in his back pocket, and his scoops his denim jacket off the back of his desk chair, stuffing his cigarettes and lighter into the pocket.

Unrealistically, Stiles had wanted to get out of the house unnoticed, as he had been able to do in his old home. But now, he doesn’t even get half way down the stairs before his mother is calling him into the kitchen. Stiles considered ignoring her and heading straight out, but some part of his was hoping if he went, the conversation with his mother wouldn’t make him want to bash his head against a brick wall.

He is wrong, of course.

Walking into the kitchen, Stiles ignores the clench in his chest at the sight of the Hale family and his mother sitting around the dining table. Robert sits on the end, at the head of the table with a newspaper in hand and a coffee mug in the other, the rim resting on his lower lip as if he was pulling it away after a sip but didn’t quite put it back on the table. Stiles can almost imagine his father; who had done the exact same thing every morning. Stiles wants to throw a brick at the man for even resembling something his father used to do, even if it is something small.

"Stiles," his mother says, standing by the coffee maker, "me and Robert have plans this morning so Derek is going to drive you to school."

Stiles puts his bag and jacket down by the arch into the kitchen, and murmurs, "No, thanks."

Robert raises his eyes at the response and places his newspaper on the table, eyes locking onto Stiles with a harsh gaze.

"No?" Claudia repeats, baffled. "How else are you going to get to school?"

Stiles misses the days when he could get the school bus with Scott. They stopped doing that in sophomore year, though, because Scott got a license and a girlfriend and didn’t want to get the school bus anymore - which Stiles didn’t mind, because that meant Stiles didn’t have to get it anymore.

Stiles walks to the fridge, eyes downcast. "Lydia is picking me up."

"Lydia lives on the other side of town, love," his mother says. "There’s no need for her to come all this way."

"She’s fine with it," Stiles replies. He grabs a bottle of water, his already cold fingers becoming wet from the drops of condensation on the bottles surface, and stuffs it into his rucksack.

Does Derek even want to give him a lift? He’d probably smash Stiles’ head against the dashboard before he even has a chance to get his seatbelt on.

"You kids better get going, too. Don’t want to be late," Robert says as he rises from the table, taking his mug to the sink that is already stacked with dirty plates and utensils.

The Hale teens rise without complaint, and Stiles rolls his eyes at their superior attitudes so early in the morning. At first, Stiles doesn’t follow the pair as they say their goodbyes and make their way to the front door, but the looks from his mother and Robert are like physically shoves that have him rolling his eyes and making his way out without a goodbye.

He’s relieved to find that as soon as Derek and Cora are speeding away down the dirt track away from the house, Lydia’s blue Toyota appears from behind the trees.

Stiles climbs into the passenger seat when she pulls up, dumping his rucksack between his feet on the floor.

"Howdy, Lyds," Stiles greets, flashing his friend a smile.

"Morning," Lydia replies, her red lipstick contrasting against the pale of her skin and green eyes. She shifts the gears and reverses in one clean motion before careening back down the dirt track to the main road.

"So," Lydia begins, the loose curls of her hair blows in the wind that howls through her open window, "why exactly did I have to drive all the way to the other side of Beacon Hills to pick up your scrawny ass, when you could have grabbed a ride with Derek?"

Stiles scoffs, "Hell would freeze over before I’d take up the offer to be in the same car as them."

"You know, a lot of people would do some pretty impressive things to ride in the same car as Derek Hale," Lydia says.

"I’d rather put my hand in a blender."

Lydia smirks, eyes on the road. "Such a pleasure taking to you in the morning, Stilinski."

"You too, Martin," Stiles responses sweetly.

 

The first morning back passes by smoothly. Stiles spends his first lessons sitting at the back of the class, head down and doodling on his notepad instead of taking notes like everyone else. His thoughts are a garbled mess, unorganised. He’s itching for a cigarette. His hands don’t stop shaking and he can barely maintain his hold on his pen in the end.

Thankfully, the last hour before lunch goes by fast and before he knows it, he’s out the door and down the student-crowded hallway.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get as far as the doors before Lydia rounds the corner and loops her arm through his. She drags him the other way, saying, "Food first, drugs later."

Stiles only complies because arguing with Lydia is like arguing with yourself: you never win.

Beacon Hills High’s lunch hall is a daunting room. It’s full of people, thick suffocating crowds and loud noises. The pressure to eat is overwhelming, especially when everyone on Stiles’ table; Lydia, Scott, Allison and Kira - are always buying him food and nudging it towards him every few minutes when it goes untouched.

Stiles is aware of the concept of eating. He’s experienced a biology lesson and knows the dynamics of the working body, a large impact relying on the source of food and energy.

But food doesn’t appeal to Stiles anymore. He can’t describe it, describe the need and desperation. He can’t even blame his fathers death, because it started the moment he caught his mother making out with Robert Hale half way through her marriage with his father. Stiles has always been skinny. Even when he ate like a walking hover, he was a tall, lanky flailing mess. But now, with the grief and nightmares and anxiety weighing down on his shoulders like the weight of the world, Stiles just doesn’t see the point anymore.

Lydia shifts the plate that cradles a ham sandwich and a handful of apple sticks. Stiles catches a gaze with Lydia and holds it up. The strawberry blond stares him down and soon, Stiles is picking up one of the moist apple sticks and taking a small bite.

It tastes bitter and mushy - not like a fresh apple should. He doesn’t bother to try and hide the grimace that covers his face. He knows his friends notice, the tension around the table thickens momentarily before Allison tries to lift it by futilely bringing up the upcoming lacrosse tournament.

Stiles instantly tunes out, not wanting to hear about how he’s going to warm bench, yet again. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t quit the team yet. He only joined to please Scott back in freshman year and get his mother off his back; the woman had stressed for an entire week about Stiles’ lack of school commitments. It was either lacrosse or chess, and now, Stiles is thankful he chose lacrosse. He doesn’t think he could manage attending a club where he’d have to play a game that only reminded him bitterly of his father.

Stiles manages to eat three sticks and a few bites of the sandwich before his stomach churns nauseously. Either way, the small food intake seems to please the tables occupants as Lydia flashes him a proud smile and Scott squeezes his shoulder.

The only thing that comes to mind for Stiles now is the escape he can get to. As Lydia had said; _food first, drugs later_. Now, is later.

Stiles gets up, excusing himself by saying he has to get some stuff fro his locker before his neck class starts. It’s a bland excuse and he can see the false belief in his friend’s eyes, though none of them point him out on it. He dumps the remaining contents on his tray into the trash can on his way out.

Stiles rushes to the bathroom, stomach flipping and spasming. He bursts through the door, stumbling into the dimly lit school toilets. His legs are unsteady underneath him, wobbling dangerously.

He’s about to go into a stall to relive himself from the churning in his gut, when the door opens behind him.

"Hello, Stilinski."

A shiver races down his spine.

Jackson.

"Long time, no see," Jackson sneers. Stiles can hear every thud of his feet against the bathroom floor tiles, crashing loudly in Stiles’ ears like thunder cracks. He turns around slowly, body trembling.

Jackson’s lips are twisted upwards in a devilish grin, menacing and terrifying.

"I missed you at Danny’s party on Friday," Jackson goes on, strolling forward, closer towards him. "Looks like I’m going to have to make up for it now."

"Jackson—"

Stiles barely gets the word out before he’s being shoved backwards. His bag flies off his arm as he lands hard on his back, his head hitting the hard floor with a concerning _crack_. His vision flashes white, the world spins out of focus. Dark spots swarm his vision and he can barely make out the figure looming over him before a foot comes crashing down against his ribs.

The teen who isn’t old enough for his year in high school tries to turn in on himself, using his arms and legs to protect him chest and stomach.

"Oh, how I’ve really missed our personal time together, Stilinski," Jackson taunts.

Another blow strikes Stiles in the stomach. Stiles wants to voice the warning of the reappearance of his lunch, but he can’t even get a word out between kicks. He can feel the impact of Jackson’s large shoes leaving marks on his aching body, burning with pain.

The kicks stop, and Stiles barely gets his tear-blurred eyes open before two hands are fisting in his collar and yanking him up. His legs are like jelly underneath him, the only thing keeping him vertical is Jackson’s hands clenching his jacket.

"How does it feel, fag?" Jackson hisses, spit hitting Stiles’ face.

Stiles can’t force out the words before the bell for class rings and echoes inside the bathroom. Jackson looks up, snarling. He throws Stiles backwards, the unsteady teen falling through the toiler stall door and crashing into the hard, cold ceramic of the toilet. His back cracks, painful volts shooting through his body so harsh he cries out. His vision blurs, head spinning so fast he feels like he’s going to pass out.

He can barely make out Jackson’s voice.

"See you later, fag," he hears before the blessed sound of the bathroom door opening and closing greets his ears.

Stiles slides to the floor in a boneless heap. Everything hurts, everything throbs. He doesn’t even care about being late for Finstock’s class when the second bell sounds, indicating the start of class. All Stiles cares about is the breath coming back into his lungs and the pain to _stop_.

The young teen can feel the painful rattle of his chest when he tries to force the breath back into his lungs. He lays there for what feels like hours before the pain of moving is bearable and he manages to climb to is feet.

Walking hurts and volts of sharp pain grows in his back and ribs, shooting through him like hot, electric shocks. He makes his way out of the bathroom stall, every step making his legs waver and vision swim.

Standing in front of the mirror, Stiles stares at his reflection that holds not evidence of the kicks and throwing Jackson had delivered apart from the tear tracks down his cheeks. Jackson had learnt early on that damaging Stiles’ face only arose attention and was obvious evidence of the bullying, making it hard for Stiles to hide it when his face was beaten to a bloody pulp. Now, Jackson only abuses Stiles in places that can be covered with clothes - so everywhere _but_ his face. And Stiles does cover it up, covers up the evidence so no-one understands the slowly crumbling teen that limps the corridors as if nothing is wrong. People assume all of his problems evolve from his fathers death and his parents divorce, and it’s only been Lydia and Scott who asked one day last year why he was limping, and Stiles, of course, blamed it on clumsiness. His two friends believed the excuse and haven’t asked again. Stiles has just become better at hiding the damage.

He can feel the throbs under his skin like pulsates. Jackson’s daily beating had done a number on the teen, more than it had last year.

Stiles recognises the tight feeling in his chest. His bruises rib cage and chest can handle the strain of the evolving panic attack that falls upon the beaten teen as he leans against the dirty sink, gasping for air and praying for the burning in his lungs to recede.

Spots dance in his vision again, thriving the panic like fuel to a fire. Having a panic attack is one thing, but passing out from one and having someone find his unconscious body is another thing, and something that he doesn’t know if he can handle today.

His stomach spasms violently. He can feel the bile crawling up his throat, and he barely stumbles into the bathroom stall in time before the half digested apple sticks and sandwich bites spill into the white porcelain bowl.

 

Stiles doesn’t go to Finstock’s class. By the time he’s gathered his control and ability to stand up without toppling over in a pathetic heap, his economic’s class has ended. Stiles decides to skip chemistry. The pain in his chest needs to lessen, as does the shaking in his hands, so he goes outside behind the building for the cigarette he’s been craving all day.

He blows out a breath of smoke that rises above his head in a cloud of white and slowly disappears. He’s laying on the bench that the school had put back by the dumpsters when they replaced it with a new one in the courtyard. Stiles took this place as his own when he first found it in sophomore year, his own personal space. The teachers and students never came around here. It’s where the janitors dump the broken furniture and trash bags in the dustbins - there’s a chair with three legs, two desk tables that have so much engraved graffiti on them they’re basically a completely rough surface.

Stiles stares up at the clear blue sky, the pale blue stretching as far as he can see. His phone buzzes in his pocket, he pulls it out, expecting to see Lydia or Scott asking where he is. Instead, much to Stiles’ surprise, it’s a text from Theo.

_Are you free?_

Stiles frowns and types a quick response, trying not to think too much about it.

I could be. Why?

Theo’s reply comes in seconds.

_Because I’m bored and if you’re as good company sober as you are when you’re drunk, then I’d like to meet ;)_

This is one of those 'fuck it' moments, Stiles realises - when you’re made to make that decision that you’re not sure if it’s going to completely backfire or open doors to unimaginable things.

Stiles decided to _fuck it_. Life can’t get any worse, can it?

After a few more text exchanges, Stiles finds himself climbing over the fence on the lacrosse field and making his way into town.

Theo had asked him to meet him at the local coffee hut, and it doesn’t occurred to Stiles why The wasn’t in school either until he crosses the road opposite the cafe and see’s Theo sitting in the window.

The bell chimes above his head when he enters. The strong smell of fresh coffee beans and baked pastries fill his nose, making his mouth water. Stiles ignores the hunger like a reflex, vile words swarming ears.

_You’re a fat fuck up._

_That’s why your mother hates you._

_That’s why your father left you._

_Have some self-control._

Stiles snaps himself out of his spiralling mind when he realises Theo is waving at him. He smiles back, making his way over to the round table the other boy is sitting at.

"You not getting anything to eat or drink?" Theo asks him when he sits down.

"Uh, no," Stiles replies, unable to hide the grimace when he sits down. His body aches from the walking, his ribs and back throbbing. His legs tremble when he drops down into the chair.

Theo raises an eyebrow, and Stiles is swamped with panic that Theo had noticed the pain etched into his face. Thankfully, the other teen doesn’t mention it, even if he did notice it, and pressed further onto the subject of food. "Why?"

Now Stiles wishes he asked about the grimace.

He shifts in his chair, the room suddenly hot and stuffy.

"I get it," Theo says, "You haven’t got any money?"

"Yes!" Stiles quickly agrees. "Yes. Yes, that’s why!"

Stiles’ sudden outburst causes Theo not to frown, but to laugh. Stiles likes his laugh, he decides. It’s carefree, light, genuine.

Theo puts his hand up, and calls when he has the waiters attention. "Two black coffees and two slices of your finest lemon cake, please."

Stiles’ heart begins to race. "Uh, n-no, Theo—"

"It’s fine," Theo reassures him, waving his hand in dismissal, but Stiles feels nothing but panic.

"No, seriously. I’m not hungry—"

"Stiles, calm down. Honestly, it’s fine," Theo insists, flashing him a toothy smile. "I wasn’t going to ask you to coffee and you pay or sit there with nothing."

"But. . ."

"Not 'but’s'," Theo replies, still smiling. "Seriously. I have enough money to pay for you’re college fees three times over."

Stiles barks a laugh. "Really?"

If Theo is rich, then perhaps he won’t be bothered when Stiles wastes his money by not eating the cake. And if he asks about it, Stiles can just say he doesn’t like lemon - despite it being his favourite cake flavour.

"Yeah, Theo nods. "Business parents, business family. My parents are rolling in money."

Stiles scoffs, shaking his head. "Must be nice."

"Sometimes," Theo replies, honestly. "The money is nice, but the distance between me and my parents has gotten bigger since I’ve grown up. As soon as I was able to look after myself, they dropped being a parent altogether. Oh— thank you!"

Theo breaks off, nodding and smiling to the waiter as she set down two cardboard coffee flaks and two plate that cradle large slices of yellow lemon cake.

"I can relate," Stiles says, taking one of the coffees and bringing it to his lips for a sip. It’s bitter and burns it’s way down his throat.

"Really?" Theo looks surprised. "My mother said your mother is lovely. She works at the community children centre, doesn’t she?"

Stiles nods, "Yeah."

She doesn’t do much caring for her own children though, he thinks.

Theo nods, "My mother owns it now, bought out the business when we moved here. When I met your mother, she seemed nice enough."

"Oh," Stiles says simply. He isn’t sure how he feels about Theo knowing his mother.

Theo hums, expression content as he puts his coffee down after a drink. "God. I _love_ black coffee."

"If you dare say 'black like my soul', or something just as cheesy or grunge-tumblr, then I am going to throw my cake at you."

Theo throws his head back and barks a laugh. Stiles feels drawn in. People usually frown at his snarky humour.

"I was right," he says, smiling. "You are good company. Sober _and_ drunk."

Stiles chuckles awkwardly, and then Theo is already starting another conversation. Stiles remembers when he was like that.

"So, how did you sneak out of school? I’m assuming that’s where you were."

Stiles shrugs, "I just climbed the fence when I was outside. I was skipping classes already."

"Your high school is much more slack than mine was," Theo says. "Sophomore year sucks."

"I’m not a sophomore," Stiles murmurs into the lid of his cup. "I’m a junior."

Theo’s eyes widen comically. "What?"

"I’m a junior—" Stiles repeats, but is cut off.

"I know," Theo says quickly, "but, aren’t you like 15?"

Stiles narrows his eyes. "How do you know how old I am?"

Theo blinks. "I searched you up. You know. . . and it came up with your profile and your birthday was there."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. Theo searched him up?!

"You looked me up?"

Theo shrugs, "I’m a curious guy."

Stiles hums, and is surprised when he finds himself smiling. He feels warm and soft, like he’s just climbed out of a shower. He feels flattered, even though he knows he should feel creeped out by this. This is wrong, surely, but no one has ever done it. No one has ever wanted to know him so desperately to _look him up_. He feels wanted, and it’s a really nice feeling.

"Are you creeped out?"

"No," Stiles replies honestly. "Surprisingly."

Theo laughs, "Good. It’s impressive though; that you attended high school a year early."

"It’s not that big of a deal," Stiles shrugs, looking at his fingers clasped around the coffee cup, avoiding eye contact.

Theo is quiet for a long moment, eyes watching Stiles intensely.

"I think it’s a big deal," he says, eventually. A small smile twitches his lips as he stabs his fork into his cake, taking a bite. "Intelligence is attractive."

Stiles feels his eyes widen. Does Theo find him attractive? His head spins.

Theo is attractive. He’s a combination of toned muscle and smooth skin. His blonde hair is styled in a smooth cow like. His teeth are straight and pearly white, with a smile that takes up his entire face in a good way. His blue eyes are dazzling, bright and luminous. Stiles watches his red lips move on the fork as he eats his cake, his sharp, strong jaw moving as he chews. His long, blonde eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. Stiles can’t stop watching.

"You not going to eat your cake?"

Stiles jerks, startled. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. His hands shake under the table, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

"I. . . uh— I don’t. . . don’t like lemon cake."

The lie tastes like bile in his mouth. He fears for a moment that he’s going to throw up again.

Theo looks down at his plate before meeting Stiles’ eyes again. "I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you didn’t like lemon cake."

Stiles shakes his head. His throat is tight. "It’s fine," he rushes, choking and words coming out in a rasp. "I ate at school. I’m not that hungry now."

Theo looks at him for a while, face a void of any emotion Stiles can pin point. He’s normally brilliant at reading people, but trying to read Theo make Stiles feel like he’s blind. It’s scary.

"Okay," Theo smiles, and Stiles feels like he’s been punched in the lungs at the sight. In an ironically good way. "I’m not going to force you to eat, Stiles. I’m not going to force you to do anything."

Stiles slumps into his chair, relief coursing through him.

 

Stiles is happy he went to the coffee shop. Theo has a sense to him that is calming and comfortable. He isn’t going to force Stiles to eat, or to talk about things he doesn’t want to. He laughs, and Stiles manages to laugh too, making him blush the shade of a tomato. Theo doesn’t mention it though, only dishes out hinting compliments and talking about complete nonsense that Stiles wouldn’t be able to recall even if he was asked to.

The afternoon is perfect, and Stiles actually enjoyed himself. When they’re leaving, Stiles sees Theo slip the cashier more money than a necessary tip, ignoring Stiles’ complaints about him paying and then leading the younger boy outside.

Once on the sidewalk, a lingering summer wind chills Stiles skin as he burrows down into the fur of his jacket collar. He pulls his cigarette box out of his pocket, placing one between his lips before motioning to Theo, "Want one?"

Theo smiles, "Why not. Thanks."

The other teen takes one, Stiles lights his own before he, almost automatically, leans and curls his hand around Theo’s, flicking the lighter and watching it burn the tip of Theo’s cigarette.

He looks up, eyes flicking up, and finds his face inches from Theo’s. The other teen is a little bit taller than Stiles, but when they’re so close, Stiles can see every detail in his eyes, eyes shade of blue sparking in the ocean eyes. Time slows to a stop, everything moves in slow motion.

Theo stares back. He doesn’t move away, and then his lips twitch up, jerking Stiles into action as he practically stumbles backwards, coughing on a gulp of smoke that was building at the back of his throat. He pockets his lighter, putting a distance between him and Theo, recovering from the moment.

"I want to say you’re too young to smoke, but almost everything about you proves you’re never too young for anything," Theo says.

Stiles quirks the corners of his lips in a smirk he fails to hide. "Thanks. I think."

Theo laughs, "You’re welcome. I’m guessing you’ve heard the speech about how smoking is bad for you."

"Of course," Stiles replies. "But it will be a lot more ironic coming from someone with a cigarette in his mouth."

Theo barks another laugh, and Stiles feels his chest clench.

He can’t stop staring.

He watches the movement of his lips as he takes a drag and breaths out the white smoke floats above him like a smudged halo.

He doesn’t realise Theo is staring at him too until he meets his eyes.

He can feel himself shivering from the cold, so he huddles into his jacket and takes a seat on the sidewalk curb. Moments later, he sees Theo sit beside him out of the corner of his eyes, the other teens body a solid warmth against his side.

It takes all of his control not to lean into it.

"Hey, here," Theo say suddenly, pulling off his rucksack that Stiles didn’t even realise he had on. He puts it between his legs, unzipping it and rummaging around in the bottom. He pulls out a clear ziplock bag, and Stiles’ eyes widen at the contents.

It’s filled to the brim with pills. White pills, green pills, red pills. Big, small, long, short and everything in-between.

"What are you doing!?" Stiles hisses. He looks around frantically, "Put it away, you fool. You may be rich and have people to bail you out of jail, but I’m pretty sure my mum won’t hesitate to leave me there to 'think about my mistakes'!"

Theo laughs, shaking his head. "Calm down. We’re not going to get arrested. It’s just a gift. . . for you."

Stiles blinks.

Wait. What?

"What?" Stiles blurts, clueless.

Theo looks at him with a soft expression that Stiles feels he could _melt_ under. "A late birthday present."

"My birthday was five months ago."

"I know, and I missed it," Theo shrugs. "So I brought you these."

Stiles stares at the bag that’s placed in his palm. "You bought me drugs?" He laughs, "For my fifteenth birthday?"

"Are you telling me you don’t want free drugs?"

"Of course not!" Stiles says, and then sighs. "These must have costed you a fortune."

"Did you forget the part where I told you I’m filthy rich?" Theo laughs, "The cost of those pills didn’t even put a dent into my monthly allowance."

"Touché," Stiles mutters, stuffing the ziplock bag into his own rucksack. "Thank you, Theo."

He feels like someone has made everything dark around him glow with an air of serendipity.

"You’re welcome," Theo smiles.

On the way home, Stiles pulls out the bag of pills. They’re heaving in his hand. Could they be dangerous? Stiles has seen the negative effects of drugs, and none of them are pleasant.

But Theo wouldn’t give him a bag of killer pills. Surely The wouldn’t want to put him in an early grave?

Without another though, Stiles takes one of the red pills and pops it in his mouth. He swallows it dry, putting the bag back in his rucksack and continuing on his walk home, ignoring the pains and twinges in his back and ribs.

Hopefully that pill was a painkiller.

By the time the Hale mansion is in sight, Stiles feels like he’s walking on clouds. A fluffiness takes home in his head, muffled and warmly sluggish. He feels like he’s just woken up on cloud nine.

"Stiles, is that you?"

His mother calls to him the moment he walks into the house. It takes him a moment to register the words called to him, and by that time, his mother is walking towards him with a stiff posture.

"Where the hell have you been?" She shouts. "First you skip school, then you don’t answer your phone. Robert has been driving around for _hours_ looking for you!"

Stiles frowns. Hours? How late _is_ it?

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, ignoring the mass notifications of missed calls from his mother and Robert, and instead looks at the time that reads in bold letters: **19:02**.

Shit. How long did it take him to walk home? He is sure he left the coffee hut in the afternoon. It couldn’t have been any later than four, and now it’s seven?

"—tiles?" His mother is still talking. Her voice sounds sharp and loud. "Are you even listening to me? Don’t you dare ignore me after the stunts you’ve pulled today— where are you going?"

Stiles walks away abruptly, heading to the stairs. He walks past the kitchen and ignores the looks he receives from the Hale kids at the table.

Robert is standing in the archway. "Stiles, listen to your mother."

"No," Stiles replies, his voice sounding far away. All he can hear is the pounding of his feet against the marble. He’s not walking that loud, is he?

He’s ascending the stairs when a loud voice booms from behind him.

"You will not speak to me like that, and you will show your mother respect!"

Stiles turns around slowly, spinning on the top step. The throbbing in his ribs comes back suddenly, as if his drug-riddled brain just remembered he got beaten up earlier that day. He can feel the coffee in his stomach lurching.

"You can’t tell me what to do," Stiles says. "You’re not my fucking dad."

He knows he sounds childish. He knows he’s being ignorant and deep down, he knows it’s all going to backlash. He’s angry at his mother, and he’s angry at himself, and that means everyone around him is going to suffer and face the fire - including Robert.

"Stiles—"

"I’m going to bed," Stiles flees quickly, running up the remaining step and to his bedroom on unsteady legs. He falls through his bedroom door and drops his bag on the floor, hands shaking and arms like jello. He grabs the pills from his bag and shoves them to the back of his second draw in his cabinet.

He’s hit suddenly with a wave of nausea that he can’t ignore. He bolts out of his bedroom, narrowly missing the wall of muscle he encountered that same morning, and sprints into the bathroom. He slams the door behind him and barely makes it above the toilet bowl before the coffee contents lurch out and splash into the water bowl below.

His throat burns, his eyes stinging as tears roll down his cheeks. His ribs are screaming, a crushing weight in his chest. His back spasms, his head is throbbing and the world spins out of focus. He drops to his knees, legs to weak to keep him standing as his stomach lurches again.

Everything is fuzzy, like he’s underwater and then suddenly, like he’s swam to the surface, everything is sharp again and he realises someone is knocking on the bathroom door.

"Go away," he rasps, voice shot to bits. He gags into the bowl again but nothing comes up, his stomach empty and aching.

Whoever is on the other side of the door, he doesn’t want to see this. If its his mother, he isn’t ready to explain to her why he’s throwing up. He can’t even stand the thought of it being Robert - the man would probably treat Stiles like a chaotic teenager who needs to be locked up in an asylum or put in rehab. Both of which, Stiles would rather eat a bullet than go through.

Another series of knocks continues.

"Stiles?"

Well, that isn’t his mother. It’s male, but not low enough to be Robert. Derek?

"I’ll be out in a minute," Stiles replies weakly. He flushes the toilet and pushes himself off his knees. He quickly hills the sink with cold water, assuming Derek is probably waiting to use the bathroom - not that there isn’t plenty other bathrooms in this maze of a house. But this is Robert’s kid, he probably wants to use this bathroom out of spite.

"Stiles," Derek says again, "Are you okay?"

Wait, what? Back peddle - did he just ask if Stiles was okay?

Stiles is tempted to pinch his arm to check this isn’t a dream - or a nightmare. He is definitely a awake. He counts ten fingers. Is this a safe side effect of those pills? Is he hallucinating?

Stiles looks at himself in the mirror, and immediately regrets it because he almost _gags_ at the sight of himself.

His pupils are blown wide, barely any colour left in his eyes. Stiles is surprised his mother didn’t notice. He lifts his sweaters by the trim, revealing his chest that looks like a watercolour of purples and blues painted onto his skin.

"Stiles?" Derek asks again, his voice high with urgency. Stiles couldn’t have heard that right. "Are you okay?"

He’s probably thinking I’ve passed out of something, Stiles realises.

"I’m fine," he replies, eyes glued to the mess on his chest. His voice is strained and sounds false in his own ears.

It must be enough to convince Derek, because moments later, Stiles hears the sound of retreating footsteps and then all falls silent.

That’s it. Run back to your precious little family. Leave me hear.

Stiles exits the bathroom five minutes later once he’s scrubbed the reminds of vomit and tears from his face. He grabs a towel and a pair of his sweatpants before going back to the bathroom to shower. He scrubs his skin sore, feeling jittery and dirty. He scrubs his bruised bones, ignoring the angry pain it causes. He washes his hair, running his fingers through the overgrown mess that resembles more of a birds nest than a head of hair these days.

He dries quickly when he gets head, head swimming, and dashes back into his bedroom. He dry swallows two aspirins and another two pills from Theo’s bag.

What’s the worst that can happen?

That’s his last thought because as soon as his head hits the pillow, the world is gone.

*****

Derek doesn’t go to bed when his father and Claudia go up. He says his goodnights and remains in the kitchen, sitting at the dining table and pretending to be finishing some homework. 

A mug of coffee sits between his hands, the contents long gone cold as the night drags on. He had stopped doing his homework hours ago, his mind too busy, filled with thoughts and questions about the boy upstairs.

Derek had seen him leave during school hours. He had watched, from the running track where he’d been, as Stiles climbed the school wire fence and disappeared, then to reappear in the late hours of the evening without a word all day.

Claudia hadn’t been lying when she said Robert had driven around town looking for her son. Claudia had been throwing a fit, ramming words about how Stiles could be hurt, or in trouble, or lost and _blah blah blah_. Derek is pretty sure his father only offered to go out and look to make a good impression and get Claudia to shut up. Either way, the drive around had been unsuccessful and after five minutes after his father got home, Stiles had stumbled through the front door.

Derek is pretty sure the boy was high, if not, then he had definitely taken something. The boy was pale - sickly pale, and swaying where he stood. And then, as if everything the boys mother had said just went in one ear and straight back out the other, Stiles had escaped upstairs in a rush.

Derek had almost snapped at his father to stop talking when he went on about respect, and talking to Stiles like he was a child. Derek hadn’t been surprised when Stiles turned around and used the 'you’re not my dad' card on Robert. It’s something Derek admits he would have probably done too, because he knows there is nothing worse than being told to do things by your stepparent, and being given lectures.

After Stiles had ran upstairs, Derek doesn’t know what willed him to follow, apart from the fact that he didn’t want to listen to his father blatantly demand Claudia to control her son. When Derek had made it outside Stiles’ bedroom, suddenly wondering what the hell he is meant to say, the bedroom door had flown open and he was startled when Stiles almost ran not him, for the second time that day, and shot into the bathroom.

The sounds of retching and vomiting had been hearable from the hallway were Derek had stood outside the bathroom door. When it had stopped, Derek waited a moment before he rasped his knuckles against the fine wood of the door.

"Go away," Stiles had said, voice raw and hoarse.

Derek had inwardly winced at the scratching tone. Silence had stretched, reaching worrying amounts when Derek knocked again, calling the teens name.

Stiles had said he’d be out in a minute, before it all went silent again. He heard the toilet flush, but the door didn’t open.

Minutes passed before he risked asking, "Stiles, are you okay?"

Stiles had told him he was fine, and the door stayed shut and locked. Derek didn’t know what to do, so he left. He knew Stiles wasn’t fine. No one is fine after they’re sick. He left the boy in the bathroom and returned downstairs to find his father talking at Claudia about boarding schools. Thankfully, Claudia had enough heart to deny any thought about sending her son away because as blind as the woman is about her sons evident issues, she obviously didn’t have any intention of sending him to any place that would only cause the raft between Stiles and his mother to grow.

Derek loves his father, but the man is like he’s in permanent business meeting mode, and seems to think that by sending away the problems, he’s getting rid of them. Out of sight, out of mind.

Derek blames his lack of sleep when he realises he’s coming up with ways of making the younger boy to open up. It isn’t Derek’s responsibility to look after the skin boy, who has proven to be too stupid to know when to eat a damn meal. It isn’t Derek’s responsibility to tell the kid about the dangers of drugs, or tell him how the smell of tobacco sticks to him like a second skin. If the kid wants to spend his life bent over a toilet vomiting everything he consumes then he can. Derek is in so position to stop him. The only person who can, is the boys oblivious mother.

And that’s the scary part, Derek thinks.

 

_— tbc._


	4. open wounds

****Blood covers every surface. The wall are coated and puddles of crimson red stains the floor. The bodies of the dead lay motionless, their faces locked in mid-shock, silent screams, forever frozen.

His father is screaming, sobbing on his knees. He begs for Stiles to put down the gun, pleading his only child to _stop_.

It’s like he’s frozen in his body. He isn’t in control, he can’t move. Stiles’ hand stays clutched to the gun, finger tense and trembling on the trigger.

"Son," his father’s tone shakes. "D-don’t do this. Just put the gun down, Stiles. P-put the gun down!"

Stiles’ vision shakes, and it takes him a moment to realise he’s shaking his head. Tears prick in his eyes. He can’t stop himself, no matter how much he screams at himself to.

"I c-c-can’t," he chokes.

He pulls the trigger. His father’s eyes fill with fright, an undeniable terror that forever haunts him. The bang of the guns sounds and—

Stiles jerks into a sitting position. His heart pounds against his bruised rib cage like a trapped animal, fighting to burst out. Tears stream down his cheeks. Hs lungs refuse to expand in the sheer panic he’d woken up in, his breath lodged in his throat and refusing to _move_. His eyes are open, but he doesn’t see his room. All he can see is his father’s eyes, in the same moment before he was lurched back into the land of the living. This is something he’s dreamed anytime. The nightmare isn’t foreign to Stiles, yet it sends him into a fit of breathless panic every time.

He scrambles out of bed, his whole body trembling. His hand reaches under the mattress, between the bed frame, and pulls out the blade he took out of a pencil sharpener and has kept hidden for his entire teenage years. He stumbles to the bathroom, legs threatening to give out underneath him at any moment. His panic-clouded mind doesn’t register the ridiculous time of the morning as he crashes down the hallway and into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Stiles doesn’t make it as far as the toilet before he crashes to his knees. His breath is gone, stolen, and he’s suffocating. Dark spots darken his vision, blurred and unfocused, and if he doesn’t do something now, he’s going to pass out. Stiles had dropped the blade in his fall, and he scoops it up off the bathroom floor with a shaking hand. He remains on his knees as he drags the blade along his wrist in jagged, jerky lines. As soon as the blood seeps over the split skin and the pinch of sharp pain radiates from the slit skin, Stiles’ panic recedes like a wave being dragged back into the ocean. His lungs open again, he sucks and gasps large gulps of oxygen, head spinning.

With the panic attack almost fully gone and the tears drying on his cheeks, Stiles slumps against the bath, overcome with exhaustion. He watches as the trails of blood run down his arms, forming red tracks on the pale skin. The sight of the familiar white and red scars that already mark his ruined skin send a tremor down Stiles’ spine. He feels the bone deep shame swarm his gut, hitting him as hard as a physical punch would. He hasn’t, and can’t, let anyone see them. The only person who knew about it was his father, and as the saying goes; two can keep a create if one of them is dead.

He’s been doing it since he can remember. When he was younger and just started high school, Stiles had bouts of feeling sad for no reason, and the lack of control over his panic attacks and anxiety made him feel so helpless. Stiles had no control over his pain, his fear, the shakes in his hand. He had no control over the pain inflicted on him by Jackson, and Matt, and all the other bull-headed assholes that threw him around because he got sent to high school a year early. The only thing Stiles had control over was the pain he could conflict on himself, and it made the panic, the fear, the shaking, all of it just ease for a few precious moments. The scars are worth it, when Stiles reminds himself of how powerless he feels without the blade in his hand and the pain he chose to have throbbing under his skin. He controls this pain. It’s the only thing he has any control over.

Stiles takes a shaky breath. Beneath him, a shallow pool of red has formed and in the sudden fright that it might stain the expensive floor tiles, Stiles scrambles up for a cloth, dampening it in the sink and begins to clean the floor. It smears and smudges, but comes off easily enough and once Stiles wipes down his own arm that’s coated in it’s own later of crimson red, he then dumps the stained cloth in the bin instead of the paper - there is no way he’s risking trying to get it washed without someone seeing the contents bled onto it and not arising questions.

The lines on his arm are still sluggishly bleeding so he presses some folded tissue against it, pressing hard enough that he can’t stop himself from hissing out a yelp of pain. It stops soon enough, and then Stiles pulls out a bandage from the small medical cupboard abc the sink that he had discovered when he was exploring the bathroom back in August. He feels an air of calm around him now. The throbbing in his arm is a constant reminder of how screwed up he truly is, but it doesn’t matter because he no longer feels like he’s drowning in his own personal pool of pain and misery.

When Stiles steps back out into the hallway, stepping with consideration to make it back into his bedroom quietly. The house is dark, black with nighttime shadows. Beyond the windows, the night continues to drag, the woods outside dark and a soft white from the moon reflects off the leaves.

Stiles has only taken one step out of the bathroom when he notices the low glow of light from his mother and Robert’s bedroom that is now on, the door ajar slightly. He holds his breath, as if it would decrease the amount of clutter and noise he must have made before.

"Everything alright?"

Stiles jumps at the voice behind him and spins around. In the shadows, he can see Robert.

The older man steps forward, his arms behind his back and posture straight, as if he’d just entered a meeting and was dealing with a messy customer.

"Fine," Stiles says, voice quiet.

"What as all that noise?"

Stiles swallows thickly. "I needed the toilet."

He can’t stand the way Robert is staring at him, studying him, so Stiles spins on his heel and hurries back into his bedroom. He has a gut feeling that Robert knows what he was doing in the bathroom. His hands dampen and he wastes no time pushing off the closed bedroom door and climbing back under his bed covers. He feels jittery and shaky, the aftershock of the nightmare still lingering on his skin like a cold sweat. He wants nothing more than to shower and smoke a dozen cigarettes until he gets a nicotine high.

But he can’t, because he isn’t in his old home where it was just him and his mother. He can’t shower in the early hours of the morning or sit on the back step, cigarette between his lips, and watch as the sun rises, shining into their small back garden. He can’t speak to his dad, he can’t get any comfort that he so dearly craves from the man who has given him everything, and then ripped it all away.

His dad is dead, and it’s all his fault.

*****

Claudia sits up in bed. She shifts the pale pink, spilt top that had twisted during her slumber.

She had felt Robert get out of bed minutes before and watched him step into the hallway after a series of stumbling footsteps and banging doors shook through the silent house. Through the small gap between the door and the frame, Claudia can hear low murmurs before the sound of scurrying and a door opening and closing. Then their door is open wide.

"What’s wrong?" Claudia asks as Robert comes back inside, undoing the waist band of his robe and stripping the clothing. He climbs into bed beside her, turning off his bedside lamp and plunging the room into darkness.

"Robert?" Claudia presses when he doesn’t answer. She stays sitting up, her body rigid with anxiety of what could have happened in the hallway at such an early time in the morning.

"Stiles," Robert replies, his voice low with slumber, "said he needed the toilet."

Claudia frowns. "He made a lot of noise just using the toilet."

Robert grunts in response, already slipping back into the realms of sleep.

"Do you think everything’s okay?" Claudia asks, worried. The behaviour of her son recently has her questioning everything she thought she knew about teenagers and being a parent.

For a moment, Claudia thinks Robert has gone back to sleep, but then he makes a noise in the back of his throat and mumbles softly, "I’m sure he’s fine, love."

Claudia wishes she could believe the man she’s come to love. But she can’t. Stiles’ spiral started long before the love Claudia possessed for John Stilinski ran out, long before her son’s father was shot right before his eyes, and long, long before they moved out of his childhood home. Claudia doesn’t know when it started exactly, doesn’t know what set it off, but she does know that the last years of events have done nothing to ease the raft building her and her son. She thought moving in with Robert and the kids would have been good for Stiles; a fresh start with some older people for him to look up to. She thought having Derek around would give Stiles some motivation to become more like the bright, successful and ambitious boy he once was. But moving has only caused Stiles to withdraw, only added to the haunted and betrayed look he wears. Moving has only made Stiles more distant and angry.

And Claudia just doesn’t _get it_. She had every right to do everything she’s done. She had the right to leave Stiles’ father, to move in with Robert, to start fresh. She feels like she should confront Stiles about skipping class, and for not telling her where he was all afternoon and evening. She has ever right to be annoyed when he purposely back-talks Robert, or ignore what she asks. It’s good parenting, right?

Claudia doesn’t fall back to sleep that night. Robert lays soundlessly beside her, deep in his own restful slumber while Claudia’s mind won’t shut down. Her thoughts run over about her, how things have changed, how things have gone wrong. The normally talkative boy - can Claudia say it’s normal? Stiles hasn’t been like that in a long time. That’s not his normal anymore. The boy who had been so full of light and potential, and is now the boy who barely speaks to Claudia without a hint of disgust etched on his too pale and too gaunt face. How the limbs of her usually gangly and bouncing son has become so awfully thin that Claudia worries any slight bump will shatter the fragile bones beneath the skin. How in instead of studying for school, Stiles spends his time smoking those awful cigarettes that he no longer tries to hide, and Claudia fears will one day end the life of her talented and scarred small boy.

Morning light breaks through the crack between the silk curtains, flourishing the room with a soft, yellow glow. The clock reads **6:23AM**. The alarm will be going off in seven minutes, then again in ten incase they fall back to sleep, but Claudia feels so restless. She climbs out of bed, careful not to wake or disturb the sleeping man beside her. She wraps her new robe around her - the one Robert bought her.

As she makes her way downstairs, the house bleeding with light that pours through the high and wide windows. The marble floor is cold under her bare feet as she pads down the stairs and into the kitchen, one that is so much larger and far more grand than the old, small one she had once cooked in. The Hale house is a stunning contrast against her old home. This house has wide windows instead of shabby, creaking, dirty ones. The Hale house has a huge garden, filled with potential and Robert has said that Claudia can do all the gardening she wants, and she has high hopes and visions of how she is going to transform the bare grounds into a flourishing, brightly coloured, positive garden. Claudia loves the moments when, instead of driving along a bleak, ordinary residential road pulling into a one car drive, she drives long a private, nature surrounded track and parks in a large driveway with a white stone water fountain in the centre. She loves the feeling of the rich marble beneath her toes as she walks around her new home, instead of the old, splintering wooden planks she used to walk on. She see’s happiness in this house. She imagines good memories with large barbecues, loud laughing and family nights crowded on the sofa’s watching movies together. She has visions, she has wishes that her and Stiles will fit in here like Robert fits in her heart, like the missing puzzle pieces to create the perfect picture.

Claudia is well aware of Talia Hale, Robert’s ex-wife, who is still in contact with her children and is the guardian of the oldest sibling, Laura - neither of which, Claudia has met. There are times when Claudia feels like she’s just trying to shine through Talia’s shadow, that although the woman has left, she is still there and Claudia is nothing but a replacement.

Shooing away the thoughts, Claudia grabs a hair tie from the window sill and pulls back her hair. She can hear Robert’s alarm sounding upstairs. She can imagine how his sleepy eyes will peal open groggily, puffy with sleep. He’ll roll over, stretch his arms above his head and crack the stiff bones in his back.

She set’s the table with an assortment of cereal boxes stacked in the centre, orange and raspberry and apple juice beside them. She fetches Robert’s newspaper from the front door and places beside his placemat, along with a fresh mug of coffee, just moments before Robert appears in the archway.

Claudia smiles at him widely. He’s dressed in a navy blue suit, with tailored trousers and brown leather shoes. The front of his perfectly cut hair is slightly damp from where he’s just splashed his face with cold water. His breath, she instantly notices she steps up towards him, is fresh and sharp with minty toothpaste. It fills her senses and she tastes it on her tongue when they kiss. His hands are on the small of her back, her arms wrapped around his neck like two teenagers. All the worrisome thoughts she’d conjured up during the night disappear in the moment.

"Morning, love," Robert says as he moves towards the table. "You’re up early. D’you sleep alright?"

Claudia nods, moving back to the worktop to finish the eggs in the pan. "What meetings do you have today?"

Robert hums, taking a sip of his coffee, his face a void of emotion. It makes Claudia nervous. She’s been told, many unappreciated time, how specific Robert has to have his coffee and the bitter part of Claudia’s mind tells her Talia probably did it perfectly.

"Got one at nine-thirty at the Ransom Office," Robert replies. "Pretty big one. Will probably last most of the day, we’re negotiating the rights over the Beacon Hills Bank."

"Do you think you’ll get it?"

Robert looks unfazed as he speaks next, confident and steady, "Of course. We have this one, easy. Ransom and I have it all sorted out, don’t you worry, love. Tonight, we’ll be one business richer."

Claudia smiles; Robert is so smooth and slick with his words, able to run circles around people until they eventually crumble and give him what he wants. His work is out of Claudia’s understanding, all she knows is they make deals with other businesses and eventually convince the owners to pass over their company legal rights. Claudia had first thought it was illegal, that they were corrupting businesses and taking their money, but Robert had assured her that what he is doing is completely legal and if anything, he is doing company owners favours.

"I think we should celebrate!" Claudia says.

Robert looks at her, "How so?"

I don’t know," Claudia muses, scooping the eggs onto a bowl. "What about dinner? We could go to a restaurant, out of town. As a family."

"With the kids?"

Claudia nods. She isn’t sure when Robert says 'the kids', if he implies Derek, Cora _and_ Stiles, or just simply his two children, but either way, Claudia is not going let her son skip out on another opportunity to bond with his new family. She is also sure that Stiles is one more missed meal away from landing himself in hospital.

"It sounds like a lovely idea," Robert says, tone in such a way that something warm swells in Claudia’s chest.

The sounds of heavy footsteps sounds moments before Cora and Derek walks into the kitchen, still looking half asleep but both dressed in branded, fresh clothes.

It’s another fifteen minutes before Stiles enters.

It’s such a different sight compared to the Hale children, making Stiles stand out like a sore thumb. His pale, pale skin, gaunt cheeks and sickly thin limbs don’t fit into the scene. All the Hale’s walk with posture and pride. Their clothes are straight, coordinated and fresh. They’re presentable, all seated at the table while Stiles walk around them, clothes too big, drowning in what Claudia thinks are three layers of sweater and black jeans that make his legs look as thin as forearms. His posture is slouched, curled in with heavy shoulders.

Claudia asks herself, where the hell did she go wrong?

*****

Heads turn, conversations trail off and eyes bulge as Lydia Martin, dressed in a tight dark red skirt, a thin, knitted white jumper and a matching pair of red heels, struts down the hallway like a catwalk, with the confidence of a millionaire model.

Stiles rolls his eyes. He see’s, from where he stands by his locker, how Lydia practically soaks up the glory and jealously of her peers. She acts unfazed, but really, Stiles knows she loves it.

"Good morning, Stiles," she greets, smiling.

Stiles grunts in response, turning towards his open locker. He doesn’t think he’s in the mood for Lydia’s bluntness today.

Lydia frowns at him. She’s too smart and sees past the slouched face and sunken eyes. "What’s wrong with you?"

He tells her, how can he not? He tells her about meeting Theo, and how everything had been amazing until he’d gotten home, about how he snapped at his mother, how he’d dreamed the same dream of his father again - he leaves out the messy bathroom incident, he doesn’t need Lydia knowing about _that!_ \- and how this morning, his mother had told him they were all going out for a 'family meal' to celebrate Robert’s successful business deals.

"You’re not going to be able to come out for Kira’s birthday, then," Lydia notes.

Stiles nods glumly, shoving his books into his bag. "I can make up an excuse, say I’m not feeling well or something—"

"Don’t be ridiculous," Lydia interrupts. "Kira won’t mind, and I really think it will make your mother happy. At least it will get her off your back."

"I don’t care about my mother," Stiles snaps, slamming his locker door closed and beginning to march to class.

"Yes, you do," Lydia says, keeping up with him in her ridiculous heels. "Even if you don’t think it."

 _She’s all you’ve got left_ , goes unspoken, but Stiles can practically _hear_ Lydia thinking it.

In class, Stiles ignores the world around him. During chemistry, he draws on his paper instead of taking notes, sketching Lydia’s hand as it clasps around a rose gold pen between her thumb and forefinger. He’s finishing the shading of her thumb when Lydia mutters, without looking up from her neatly scribbling notes, "Stop drawing. I know my hands are admiring, but they’re not worth landing your ass in detention over."

In between chemistry and history, Stiles cuts his trip to his locker and goes outside.

It’s been two days since Stiles saw Theo, two days since he took the pills, and two days since they last spoke. Stiles hasn’t had the courage to speak to him, not after the pills turned him out so bad. His mind conjured up new demons, screaming at him that Theo was trying to end his worthless life. Other voices just tell him it’s because he’s too weak to handle a simple pill. That he’s _that_ pathetic.

None the less, Stiles can’t wait any longer. His hands shake as he pulls out his phone and hits the most recent contact. He listens to the bleak ringing as he checks behind him to make sure no one had followed him through the school doors.

"Stiles?" Theo’s voice comes through, and it doesn’t occur to Stiles until then that Theo is probably in school too.

"Shit!" Stiles blurts, smacking his hand on his forehead comically. "Sorry, I— _shit!"_

"Stiles?" He sounds worried now, and it makes Stiles’ gut twist with something. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles sighs, closing his eyes, washes with mortification. "Are you in class? I can phone you back—"

"I’ve got a free period," Theo replies easily, "What’s wrong?"

Stiles lets out a breath so heavy it feels like his lungs deflate entirely. He feels like a balloon someones just popped. "I was, uh. . . j-just wondering, what were. . . what were those pills you gave me?"

"Just something to get you a pleasant buzz," Theo replies slowly, as if he’s confused, "Completely harmless."

"Are you sure?" Stiles presses. He’d thrown up - or tried to - the next morning, and throwing up with bruised ribs is no walk in the park.

"Positive. I take them all the time," Theo assures. "Why?"

"I don’t think they settled right with me," Stiles finally admits. "They made me feel like shit."

Theo is silent for a long moment, as if he’s thinking. "Did you take them on an empty stomach?"

Stiles frowns, "What?"

"Did you take them without eating first?"

"Well, I had that coffee. . ." Stiles recalls, "What’s—"

Theo laughs lightly, "Stiles, has anyone ever told you not to take pills on an empty stomach?" He says, "Of course they will make you sick. It’s the same for drinking alcohol. I thought you knew that?"

"No!" Stiles yelps, "I didn’t know that! Why didn’t you tell me that?"

"I assumed you knew," Theo confesses, sounding guilty. "I’m sorry."

Stiles drags his hand down his face. "It’s fine. My mistake, not yours."

"Stiles!"

He spins around, just in time to see Lydia standing in the doorway, hands on her hips.

"Come on!" She yells. "You’re going to be late."

"Gotta go," Stiles says into the phone, "Bye, Theo."

"Bye, Stiles," Theo replies, "Make sure you eat before you take anymore pills."

Stiles hangs up and follows Lydia to class.

The day drags. Lessons blur and bleed into lunch. Once again, Stiles is dragged into the lunch hall by Lydia, telling him if he misses another meal in front of her she is going to physically shove a sandwich down his throat. Stiles reluctantly sits down, because he loves sitting with his friends, honestly, and wishes Kira a happy birthday.

"Thank you, Stiles," she beams brightly.

Lydia leaves to get food, and moments later, Scott and Allison sit down.

"Hey, buddy," Scott says, bumping his shoulder.

"So," Allison starts, while she’s feeding carrot sticks into Scott’s mouth, "where are we eating tonight?"

"Well," Scott replies, "it’s Kira’s birthday, so you choose."

Kira’s cheeks flush a rosy pink, and her eyes wander as if she’s thinking. She jumps suddenly, eyes glinting, "What about sushi? My dad and I go to this amazing restaurant down town. It’s not too expensive, too."

Allison nods, "Sushi. Yeah, lets do sushi!"

"Have you ever tried sushi, Allison?" Lydia asks, suddenly appearing at Kira’s side. She sits down opposite Stiles, placing a plate with a ham sandwich cradled on it and pushing it under Stiles’ chin in a silent demand, and then pulls out her own lunch from her bag.

Stiles knows Lydia isn’t going to eat cafeteria food, she’s too self-maintenance to put herself through that torture — yet, she expects Stiles to eat it?

Stiles also knows Lydia is only sitting with them because Jackson is doing lunchtime lacrosse training, but he doesn’t like to think about it. He knows Lydia loves them all, it just sucks that she only sits with them when her boy-toy is unavailable.

"I haven’t," Scott replies, opening his mouth as Allison gives him another stick of carrot.

Allison smiles at him, "You’ll love it."

The girls continue to talk about what sushi they ate while Scott tries to take mental notes on what to eat, and what _not_ to eat, and Stiles stares at the sandwich in front of him.

"Stiles, what about you?"

He looks up. Everyone is looking at him.

"What?"

"You okay with sushi?" Kira asks.

Stiles blinks rapidly, flooded with a sudden panic. He doesn’t know why he’s panicking, he knows Kira isn’t going to be mad - she’s _never_ mad - but he can’t help it.

"I— uh, I—" he cuts himself off helplessly. What if Kira is upset?

"Stiles can’t make it tonight," Lydia says, "He has a family outing."

Stiles stares at her like she’s just spilled his biggest secret, to which she looks completely unaffected.

"Oh," Kira says, and Stiles can’t work out if she is sad or okay with it. He feels his palm moistening, his heart thumping in his chest as his anxiety holds him in an icy grip. He wants to shout at himself. Why is he still panicking? It’s Kira; sweet and kind Kira, who would never be angry at Stiles over something over missing her birthday meal, right?

Right.

She smiles, "It’s fine, Stiles. We’ll have to go again some other time, when you’re free."

Stiles feels like he could cry with relief.

When Stiles leaves the lunch hall, he can feel Lydia’s eyes boring into the back of his head. The untouched sandwich sits on the table where he’d left it.

Stiles goes to his locker, putting his books inside and pulling out the ones he nods for his afternoon lessons, when suddenly, the locker door slams shut. Stiles narrowly having his hand squashed between the cheap, sharp metal.

A large hand rests against the door. Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but the sadistic grin Jackson is wearing makes his close it with an audible click.

"Hello, Stilinski," Jackson sneers, stepping toward. Stiles takes an automatic step back, but his legs are shaking so hard they almost buckling underneath him. Jackson’s arm flies forward, gripping his wrist in a harsh, tight grip.

"J-J-Jacks-son—"

The older teen cocks his head to the side and puts his other hand to his ear. "What was that? I couldn’t understand through your pathetic stuttering."

His voice is mocking and humiliating.

Stiles opens and closes his mouth like a gasping fish. His heart is racing in his his chest. A cold sweat beads on his skin. He suppresses the urge to shiver.

Jackson is laughing at him. "You’re so pathetic, Stilinski. Just like your dad."

Stiles doesn’t know what happened, he doesn’t know what comes over him but something _snaps_. A different kind of fury, one he’s never felt before, burns his veins and his panic-clouded brain can’t reprehend what is happening until his knuckles are hurting and Jackson is stumbling back into the lockers.

Oh. _Fuck_.

Jackson is cradling his cheek. He looks at Stiles with a look that almost promises death and pain.

Stiles’ feet are moving under him. He’s sprinting through the halls. He can barely recall Jackson’s _'Come back here, Stilinski! You’re fucking dead!'_ because all he can think about is not falling over his feet and getting away.

*****

Derek isn’t bothering anyone as he stands alone in the locker room. He’s simply taking his time, after showering, to dress back into his casual clothes before class. He had basketball training during lunch, and the rest of the team have already left to get some food before lunch ends. He has his earphones in, music blasting.

He’s barely got his t-shirt over his head when the locker room door bursts open and someone falls through. His eyes widen comically at the sight of Stiles stumbling into the room, struggling and failing to get his rucksack off his back. He finally manages to get his trembling arm out of the strap and drop the thing to the floor.

Derek feels his body go cold at the sounds coming out of the younger boy. They’re practically wheezes and whimpers, choking. His skittish breathing echoes loudly before suddenly, his legs fold like soggy cardboard and he falls hard to his knees. The sudden action has Derek giving forward, crouching in front of the boy.

"Stiles?" He says.

The lack of response or even acknowledgment from the teen has Derek fleeing his original thoughts that the boy was ignoring him. If it isn’t for the distant look in Stiles’ eyes and the unhealthy sounds of him attempting to breath, Derek would have walked away by now, thinking the boy was an obnoxious ass.

Derek’s brain racks to find the cause of this sudden outburst, when he remembers Claudia mentioning something similar to this a few nights ago to his father.

Panic attack.

Derek is brought out of his thoughts by a strangled choke that comes from the hyperventilating teen in front of him, one who, despite his natural paleness, has lost a significant amount of colour from his face.

"Stiles," Derek tries again, speaking in a more demanding tone. He instantly gets the message that Stiles must be in so deep the he doesn’t seem to be recognising the things around him.

Thinking physical contact might work, Derek places a hand on Stiles’ wrist, and grimaces at the cold skin that’s stretched tightly over the sharp bones. He see’s the bruises, see’s the finger-shaped purple marks curled around them like a snake. Derek clenches his jaw, ignoring it as well as pretending he doesn’t feel the jagged skin under his fingertips and focuses on trying to stop Stiles from passing out.

"Stiles. Stiles, listen to me. I need you to copy my breathing," Derek says sternly, but embarrassingly softly, as he grabs Stiles by the hand. He’s grateful when the teen doesn’t make any attempts to move away as Derek places the cold hand on his shirt, where his heart is beating solidly underneath it.

What is he meant to do? He is sure if Stiles was able to respond to him, he’d snap some sarcastic comment and tell Derek to leave him the fuck alone.

It feels like hours of shallow breathing and failed attempts before the locker room door opens again, and the frantic voice of Lydia Martin calls out, "Stiles?"

Derek almost sobs in relief, "Over here!"

Lydia darts into the room and for a short moment, looks suspicious of Derek’s presence but quickly diverts her eyes to hyperventilating boy beside him.

"What happened?" She asks, putting her bag down and rushing to crouch next to him.

"I don’t know. He just ran in here and collapsed," Derek answers immediately. He has no idea what has caused the smaller boy to fall into such a state.

"Stiles," Lydia says softly, coming forward and supping Stiles cheeks, forcing the boy to look at her though his eyes were seeing something different. "Hey, Stiles. Come on, kid, say something."

Moments are filled with wheezing and shallow breathing before Lydia retracts her hands, a sad expression in her wide eyes. She shakes her head, "I think he’s too far gone."

"Too far gone?" Derek echoes, looking between the two. Stiles flinches at the volume of his voice. "What does that mean? What do we do?"

If it was anyone else, Derek would be glowing red with embarrassment for the frantic, worried tone he uses. But it’s Lydia, and somehow the shame is disguised.

"We have to wait it out. This has happened before. He just. . . there’s nothing we can do," Lydia replies, pulling out her phone, dialling a number and pressing it to her ear. She growls suddenly, "If only his mother would answer his damn phone!"

"What is Claudia going to do that we can’t?" Derek asks, taking Stiles’ hand off his chest as the action is clearly doing no favours and instead, he wraps his arms around the trembling frame to try and ease the shaking.

Didn’t Lydia just say there is nothing they can do?

"She could bring his inhaler. It helps sometimes," Lydia says. She lets out a strangled shriek and throws her phone down on her bag before crouching down and continuing to speak gentle, comforting words to Stiles.

The attack lasts another agonising six minutes before Stiles’ breathing hitches and his eyes roll to the back of his head, body going limp as consciousness is finally lost.

"He’ll be fine," Lydia says immediately, noting Derek’s panicked expression at the limp teen in his arms. "Let’s just get I’m to the nurse. Hopefully one of the receptionists will be able to get ahold of his mother."

Lydia speaks with such distaste that Derek gets the impression she isn’t a fan of Stiles’ mother. Sure, Claudia doesn’t have the best relationship with her son, but Derek thinks she normally comes across as reasonable. The arguments between and her Stilesall have valid reasons because of what Stiles is doing, and usually, it’s the teens fault.

Derek nods in response and lifts the limp body in his arms. The action only outlines clearer how light and small Stiles is. The sharp bones of his elbows and back dig painfully into Derek’s chest, but he still keeps a tight hold on the frail body.

Lydia picks up the teens bag as well as her own, using a small hand to brush Stiles’ hair gently off his forehead. Derek notes the motherly action and can now see why Stiles is so close to the teenage girl. He probably see’s her more of a sister than a friend.

The thought only makes Laura come to mind.

Derek doesn’t think he could ever look at Claudia the same way. Not after carrying Stiles to the nurse’s office, the malnourished and sick kid in his arms, limp as a cooked noodle but yet so fragile. He can’t resist, when they drop Stiles off, to ask Lydia why the teen has so much raw hatred towards Claudia who had been nothing but pleasant and positive to Derek and his family.

Lydia looks at him sharply, like a disguised glare that she’s trying to hard. "She isn't fit to be a mother, not since she met your father," she says, putting Stiles' rucksack down by the cot and stroking his locks off his forehead again.

Derek frowns, following Lydia out of the nurses office and back into the corridors. Lydia marches a step ahead of him, heels clipping loudly. "What?"

"When she got bored with John, she got bored with Stiles. She didn't want to deal with his problems anymore and even the most blind people can see Stiles can't handle them on his own. She abandoned Stiles when he needed her most, all she cared about her new family," Lydia says, the last sentence practically dripping with a sense of hatred, her eyes fiery.

Derek feels insulted, if he’s honest. None of this is his fault. "Don't take it out on me, Martin," he snaps. "I didn't push Stiles into any of this."

Lydia is tense for a few moments before she sighs, shoulders dropping like the strings have been cut. She turns around, stopping and looks at Derek with huge, green eyes.

"I know," she sighs, "I’m sorry. It’s just— I can't see him like this. He used to be fine. He used to be happy and healthy, and always talking like he had no filter. And now he's just. . ." She trails off, looking down at her feet in silence as if she is swallowing back what she wants to say.

Broken, Derek thinks but doesn’t voice it. He isn’t in a position to justify what Stiles is now, not when he doesn't know what he was like before.

"She doesn't give a toss about Stiles anymore," Lydia says, and her voice sounds like it has lost all of it’s fight. "That's why he acts out, I think. To make her notice him, even if it's bad or negative."

"Like a cry for help," Derek says, nodding. Maybe he’s starting to get it now.

Lydia nods, and then she laughs bitterly, looking at Derek with cold eyes, "I don't know why I'm telling you this, it's not like you'll do anything about it."

Maybe one day, Derek thinks. Maybe one day, I can.

*****

The atmosphere around him is thick and stuffy. The restaurant is dimly lit, and Stiles suspects it’s so you can’t read the exaggerated prices of the food they offer.

Stiles sits in the corner of the booth, his mother in the way of his old escape. Derek sits opposite him, stiff and formal in a ironed white button up while Cora, who sits beside him, looks like a grumpy teenager forced to come out on a family outing - which is exactly what she is.

At least I’m not the only moody one here, Stiles thinks.

Robert sits at the head of the table, between Claudia and Cora, his crisp black suit barely visible in the low lights. He’s holding hands with Stiles’ mother, their fingers interlocked.

"Isn’t this lovely," Claudia says, smiling. "Finally managed to organise something we could all do, together."

Stiles feels the fighting need to go the restroom and get rid of the poison in his stomach. He’d eaten two slices of garlic brad — not by choice. His mother had put two slices on a plate as slid them under Stiles’ nose. He couldn’t ignore the boring gazes of each member of the table directed at him as he stared at the food in front of him. He can feel the breading his stomach, the oil in the butter and garlic. He can feel his stomach descending, his body heavy. His stomach twists and swarms with nausea. It takes all of his self-control not to throw up all over Derek’s bread and salmon starter.

"Stiles, love," his mother begins, "what’d you fancy?"

"I don’t know," Stiles mumbles with a shrug. He’s only taken a glance at the menu. He can practically hear his father’s voice in his ear complaining about the appalling prices, scolding him on spending such a stupid amount of food. His father had always been so practical about money, and sometimes tight, but after growing up in a poor household all his life, Stiles’ father learnt the value of money very young and couldn’t stand the idea of spending wasteful money. "I’m not really that hungry."

Claudia looks at him. After Stiles had woken up from passing out from the panic attack in the nurses office, he was allowed to phone his mother, who had sounded worried on the phone - but not worried enough to get out of work to come and pick him up. Stiles hadn’t bothered worrying her. He had been fine. Claudia had been more interested in her work and what Robert was doing, so Stiles left her be and walked home, spending the rest of the afternoon tucked away in the library.

Even if he was hungry, Stiles is too strung with nerves and embarrassment to even think about devouring more food. Especially when the stuff he’s already consumed is threatening to make a reappearance.

"You need to eat, love," Claudia says. Her tone is soft, motherly, dripping with fake pity. "How about the burger and chips, you used to love those. They do curly fries too!"

Curly fries are tempting. Stiles’ mouth salivates at the mention of his favourite food, but he declines it with the shake of his head, "No. I’m not feeling too good."

"Still feeling rough?" Robert asks as he places down his own leather-bound menu.

Stiles nods jerkily, bowing his head. Robert’s gaze is crucifying and fiery, like he’s accusing Stiles of lying about his nausea, about the incident at school. Stiles takes a long sip of his lemon water.

"I think I’m going to go for the lasagna," Claudia says thoughtfully, as she continues to scan the menu.

When the waiter comes around, Claudia asks for a batch of curly fries and Stiles feels like his heart is going to bear out of his chest when he realises they’re for him.

Claudia and Robert continue to talk, even now and then dragging Cora or Derek into the conversation, but thankfully never Stiles. After hearing a fifteen minute dragging talk about Derek’s upcoming basketball games and championships that they’re sure he’ll win, Stiles begins to tune out. He looks around him, sees more people dressed in tuxes and expensive dresses, wine glasses perched between their fingers and laughing in such a poetic manner that it looks fake. In such a setting, Stiles can’t help but feel like he doesn’t belong.

The food comes after a painfully long time - but not long enough. Stiles feels his hands dampen and shake when the waited sets down a steaming bowl of curly fries in front of him. It occurs to Stiles then why such a high-class restaurant would serve such a thing. Even though it’s ridiculous, Stiles feels like he’s being watches, being analysed. He can feel every pair of eyes on him, everyone in the restaurant staring at him like a screaming madman. He eats a fry, tossing it in his mouth casually before he can feel his mothers gaze. The food itself is delicious, bursting with a riot of flavour, but Stiles has to will himself to actually swallow it down. The single fry scrapes it’s way down his throat, as it’s leaving scars behind in it’s wake. Stiles grimaces, feeling like he’s trying to swallow a ball of nails. He isn’t sure if it goes unnoticed, but Robert and Claudia continue talking, so he assumes it does.

Five minutes and three fries later, Stiles can feel his stomach growling. He can feel the fat seeping into his skin, clinging to him like a poison. Nausea swarms him, worse than before. He ignores the pleas of his starved stomach for more food and downs the last of his lemon water before excusing himself to the restroom.

His mother looks like she’s about to protest when he asks her to move, her mouth opens and Stiles begins racking his brain for excuses why he needs to go to the toilet and not a minute to waste. Thankfully, his mother snaps her mouth shut with an audible click and moves her chair in.

Once out of sigh, Stiles practically runs to the bathroom and stumbles into a stall. He slams the door shut, barely fitting the lock before he’s plunging two fingers down his throat and pushing. The gagging starts almost immediately. Tears burn his eyes but he doesn’t stop. He is going to do it. He _has_ to.

He pushes further, his fingers reaching down his throat. His chest jerks, stomach spasms, and he barely gets his fingers out of his mouth before the contents of his stomach spill into the toilet bowl.

Stiles is glad he drank the water, because it makes it so much easier to bring the fries back up.

He catches his breath and flushes the toilet. When he stands straight, he is hit harshly with a wave of dizziness. Even bracing himself on the bathroom stall wall doesn’t stop his legs from turning to jelly, and he slides to the floor in an undignified heap of limbs.

Minutes pass. He puts his head between his legs, breaths through his nose and out through his mouth, like Lydia told him to do whenever he feels sick. He closes his eyes but the world still spins. He feels lighter, and reminds himself it will be all worth it.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there before he hears the restroom door open and close. He pushes himself to his feet, the sounds of footsteps outside the door like a gun sounding at the start of a race, spurting him into action. He stumbles, hand smacking against the stall divider loudly, before he finds his balance. He takes one last deep breath, willing the black spots out of his eyes, before he opens the stall door and steps out on uneasy legs.

He feels his heart plummet when he recognises Derek by the sinks, leaning against them with his arms crossed on his chest and eyes instantly on Stiles, like he knew he was in there.

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks, and he can’t stop the high rasp his voice comes out in. He sounds like he’s spent hours screaming at the top of his lungs.

"I’ve come to feed my baby elephant," Derek replies sarcastically.

Stiles rolls his eyes. He isn’t in the mood for this. He barges past Derek and walks back into the stuffy restaurant.

He doesn’t need reminding no one gives a shit about him.

*****

"It was humiliating," Stiles grunts as he launches another stone into the rolling waves.

The air is cool and thick, with a layer of fog sitting along the sea level. Theo is beside him, throwing flat stones across the sea and watching them bounce across the surface, creating an expanding swirl of ripples, before disappearing into the deep, blue water.

They had driven to the coast in Theo’s SUV. Stiles was surprised when the other teen texted him the night before while Stiles was getting ready for bed, asking if Stiles was going to be busy today and if he wanted to be picked up in the morning to do something. Stiles, of course, had said yes. He doesn’t want to risk going back to school and getting another beating from Jackson. Who knows what the older teen is going to do to Stiles after the stunt he pulled the day before. When Theo pulled up that morning, Stiles said he was getting a lift to school with a different friend so his mother didn’t get suspicious.

"I’m sure it wasn’t that bad," Theo says.

Stiles glares at empty air. He stuffs his hands in his denim jacket pockets, pulling it tighter around himself, before he stomps back away from the moving shore. His feet are clumsy underneath him, unsteady on the big stones. He doesn’t make it far before he gets too frustrated and just gives up, dropping down heavily on the stones and lets out a huff.

"You can’t talk," he snaps. "You have no idea what it is like to have a panic attack. Let alone in front of someone who you’re certain probably took pleasure in seeing you struggling to breath."

Theo looks at him softly. He walks back from the shore too, sitting down beside him, their bodies so close their shoulders touch. "I guess not," he admits. "Why’d it happen, anyway?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Don’t worry."

He doesn’t want to tell Theo - he doesn’t need that extra embarrassment. It is something he’s never felt around Theo. The weight of the world Stiles is living in is suddenly lifted whenever they’re together. He is the only person around Stiles - apart from the Hales, most likely because they don’t give two shits about him - who doesn’t have the same look of pity in his eyes when he looks at Stiles. Stiles doesn’t know if it’s merely the fact that Theo didn’t have any involvement with Stiles or Beacon Hills before Sheriff Stilinski’s death, but either way, the older boy has not taken it upon himself to constantly remind Stiles of his 'condolences' towards his fathers passing, like every other living member around the teen. Theo is also mostly anonymous to Stiles' antics - the self harming, the self-hate, the purging. The only thing Theo knows about Stiles is that he hates parties and likes to drink and smoke, and apparently that’s enough to draw Theo in as the boy agrees to meet with Stiles on the miserable Wednesday afternoon instead of attending his own school.

Theo searches for something in his pocket, pulling out a white pack of cigarettes and a pink BIC lighter.

Stiles snorts, "Very manly."

Theo smirks at him, sliding a stick of rolled paper between his lips before lighting it and holding the box out towards Stiles. "Thanks."

It’s peaceful. Everything is silent.

Stiles looks to his side; Theo is staring ahead, eyes distant, as if he’s lost in thought and Stiles feels like his breath has been sucked out of his lungs. His heart starts to speed up, his skin tingles, but it isn’t a panic attack.

This is different, and it feels. . . nice.

Stiles resists the want to lean into Theo, to rest his head into his shoulder. He resists the urge to run his fingers through the golden brown feathers of his hair that, at the moment, is drooping due to the humidity in the air.

Theo blows whips of white smoke into the air. It drifts in front of his face, and many poetic thoughts flash through Stiles’ mind, but he doesn’t voice any of them. Theo is the only person who doesn’t know Stiles for the freak he is, and he isn’t going to ruin that with his motor mouth.

"So, what’s so bad about it?" Theo asks. "Living with the Hales, I mean."

Stiles sighs. "They’re assholes. Robert is a big business man, and all he cares about is his image and his company and how much money he can make. Cora is just moody. I don’t think anything apart from other people’s misery can make her happy, and Derek. . . Derek just hates me."

"He hates you?"

"Yeah. Well, that’s the impression I get whenever I’m in the same room as him and his death glares."

"Why would he hate you?"

Stiles shrugs. "I don’t know, because I ruined their perfect family portrait? I don’t fit in with them. I’m just a burden my mother makes them put up with."

He didn’t mean for words to spill out, but they come out like vomit. Bitter and sharp, unstoppable as they burn his throat and bring tears to his eyes. He quickly blinks them away.

If Theo notices, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he shuffles closer and relights Stiles’ cigarette that has long gone out without the younger teen noticing.

"Thanks," Stiles says, taking a long drag. Long enough that it burns his lungs.

They sit there in a comfortable silence. The sound of the waves crashing against the stones and pealing back is the only thing to be heard. The beach around them is empty, a void of life apart from the two souls sitting side by side. A cloud of smoke floats above them in swirls of artistic white, disappearing without a trace.

"What’s your family like?" Stiles asks. He’s almost finished his cigarette.

Theo looks at him, eyes surprised but not annoyed, or angry, or offended that Stiles asked.

"It’s just me and my parents."

"Must be nice," Stiles muses, stabbing the dead cigarette bud into a stone. He misses being an only child. He misses the freedom.

"Not all the time," Theo replies. "No siblings. No local family. It’s kind of lonely. Plus, going to a school out of town, means I don’t really know anyone in Beacon Hills apart from you."

"But you still came to Danny’s party."

"Danny knows a lot of people," Theo replies. "I can’t even remember who invited me. I just turned up."

Thank god you did, Stiles thinks. He wonders when he started feeling like this, feeling the need to be with Theo, the need to feel the way he does the he’s with the older teen. Theo makes him feel alive. He fills the hole in his chest that was made by his fathers death. Theo distracts Stiles from the void inside him.

Maybe it’s because Theo is like him. Theo has a lonely home life, no siblings, shitty parents. Theo likes to smoke, he likes silence and he accepts Stiles for the way he is - not that he knows the whole truth. But who tells the truth these days?

Stiles should be scolding himself for becoming attached. He can see the disaster on the horizon, calling and screaming at him to get out before it’s too late.

Love is a dangerous game, but maybe Stiles is ready to start playing.

 

_— tbc._


	5. chryslism

****It’s been raining for two days now. The ground is sodden and slippery, the mud turning into mini, sloppy sink holes. The raindrops cascade down from the blanketed sky. A harsh wind rackets against the windows, shaking the glass like a prisoner behind bars.

It’s common to be scared of thunderstorms. The idea of bolts of electricity scolding down to the earth isn’t overly appealing. The science behind it can be interesting, as Stiles has taken to researching it many times, and discovered that thunder storms are actually created by the air cooling as it rises, water vapour condensing and forming cumulus clouds. Each bolt can contain up to the one billion volts of electricity, which is caused by an imbalance between positive and negative charges.

So yes, being struck by lightening sounds fucking terrifying and people have a right to be afraid of it. Some cower in corners, some cry, while others jump a foot into the air with every cackle or rumble of laughter from the thunder.

Stiles, despite having many fears and anxieties, is not afraid of thunder storms. Sure, he doesn’t like the idea of being electrocuted by nature, but, then again, he isn’t stupid enough to go walking around outside during a thunder storm anyways.

Stiles is sitting on his bed, legs crossed underneath the sketchbook perched on his lap. EDEN sings quietly in the background, the symphony of his wise words blur in with the clattering of the rain plummeting against Stiles’ window.

The room smells of smoke and nicotine. With the rain pouring down like a flood and the heavy wind, Stiles doesn’t want to risk opening his window or stepping outside of a cigarette, and as Claudia and Robert are away for the weekend in New York, Stiles decides to just smoke in his room. He can get rid of the smell before they get back, and it isn’t like Cora or Derek are going to be coming into his bedroom anyways. Thankfully, as annoying as they are, neither of them have adopted the idea of coming into his room for anything.

Downstairs, Stiles can hear the sound of the television running and knows Cora is probably down there, stuffing her face with food that probably won’t add a single pound to her annoyingly thin frame. Derek, as far as Stiles knows, is still out with his asshole bum-buddies so Stiles has no worry about anyone coming in. And if they do, it’s not like either of them actually give a shit about Stiles’ health or the dangers smoking will give him. They might enjoy ratting him out to his mother, though.

Stiles is just finishing the outline of Scott’s hair - a charcoal portrait he’d started over a year ago and has been unfinished ever since - when there is a racketing at his window that sounds too strong to be wind or rain.

He tenses, frozen and charcoal stick mid glide against the paper, when the sound happens again. It sounds like knuckles against glass.

Stiles turns to the window, a fragment of his mind expecting to see some horror movie character, a knife in their hand, glistening with blood and a wicked grin sporting their scarred face.

It isn’t a murderer, or a psycho, or a monster. From where Stiles is sitting, it isn’t anything but a black silhouette and because Stiles is an idiot with no common sense, he gets up from the bed and walks to the window.

He almost laughs at the sight he finds.

Theo stands, hunched over. "Let me in!" He says when Stiles opens the window, voice barely audible over the howling wind.

Stiles moves out of the way and lets Theo climb through the window. The window sill is coated in a film of rain when he closes the window again.

Theo is dripping, clothes drenched to the bone and clinging to him like a second skin. His hair, normally a soft brown, is black from the water and sticking to his forehead like seaweed. Raindrops hang from his fringe like jewels.

"Can I borrow some clothes?" Theo asks.

"Oh— yeah! Of course. Uh—" Stiles scrambles through his draws, trying to find something that might actually fit the older boy. He settles for a pair of sweatpants his mother got him the Christmas before and that basically fall down from his waist, and a red lacrosse jumper that is laughably too baggy on him.

"Thanks," Theo says when Stiles hands him the clothes, smiling softly. "Bathroom?"

"Second door down the hall," Stiles replies, motioning outside to his bedroom door.

Stiles should have been worried about Cora coming up, but the teenager is probably glued to the TV and has no interest in anything Stiles does.

Theo leaves the room and Stiles stands still for a moment. It takes him a moment to finally acknowledge that Theo is here, right _here_ , across the hall from his bedroom. A sudden panic and self-consciousness springs through Stiles as he runs around the room, picking up his dirty laundry, organising the pillows on the bed and emptying the ash tray of cigarette buds into the under-desk bin.

He looks at the clock on his bedside cabinet that tells him in flashing orange digits: **17:37PM**. What is Theo doing here at this time?

What the hell is Theo doing here at all?

Theo enters the bedroom again just as Stiles is packing away his charcoal pencils and putting his sketchbook on the bedside cabinet. He’s dressed in the clothes Stiles gave him, except he looks enviously better in them than Stiles does. The lacrosse sweatshirt looks like it is actually the right size, and the sweatpants aren’t falling down like they do on Stiles. Instead, they rest comfortably on Theo’s hips and sucks in at the thighs, enough to show the defined thigh muscles.

Stiles swallows thickly.

"Sorry for barging in," Theo says as he puts his sodden clothes on the floor by the window. "I was bored and home alone. I figured you’d want the company just as much as I do."

Stiles should probably feel offended that Theo assumed he would be home alone and bored too, but he is exactly right, so there is no point bringing to the subject. Instead, he nods and sits on the bed.

"EDEN?" Theo says after a moment of silence, pointing to the laptop on the desk that is still playing softly.

Stiles tenses and nods. EDEN’s music isn’t everyone taste, although Stiles thinks he is musical legend and his songs reach so deep into Stiles’ core. The lyrics match his feelings so clearly it’s like his own monologue.

Theo smiles, moving to the bed and sitting on the edge next to him. "I love EDEN’s music."

"I didn’t think you’d know who he is," Stiles says.

Theo chuckles softly, "I’m just full of surprises."

Stiles smiles, looking down at his hands. The music plays in the background, and Stiles feels peaceful.

"I started listening to that band you mentioned, Kodaline. The one on the radio," Theo admits, and Stiles looks up in surprise.

"Yeah?" He says. "What’d you think?"

"I think you have really good taste in music," Theo replies, laughing softly.

Stiles didn’t know what to think of that. No one has ever listened to the same music as him, let alone _liked_ it. He’d tried to get Scott into Kodaline once, but he had his heart set on the charts pop music, and while Stiles liked those songs, he just found undiscovered music so much better. They had something about them, like they were Stiles’ little secret.

He certainly didn’t expect Theo to go and search them up because he mentioned them almost two months ago, when they were fleeing from Danny’s party. He doesn’t know how he should feel about that, but it makes him feel warm.

"What was your favourite song?"

"Brand New Day," Theo replies. Their faces are so close. Eyes level, mouths just in reach. Then he whispers, "What’s yours?"

"High Hopes," Stiles says. In truth, he can’t always choose. _In a Perfect World_ is his favourite album of all time, but High Hopes always seems to stick. "I can listen to it on repeat."

Theo smiles, his straight, white teeth showing. "I like that one too."

Half an hour later, _In a Perfect World_ is playing from the computer while Stiles and Theo lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, chain-smoking cigarettes. They don’t talk. They don’t sing. Stiles hums, Theo smokes. It’s perfect, Stiles thinks, after a particularly long drag of his fourth cigarette. A cloud of white smoke is forming above them, not moving away.

Four songs later, Theo leans up on one elbow and looks down at him. "I know you’re favourite music, so what’s your favourite movie?"

Stiles looks up at him, blinks slowly, and replies, "The Breakfast Club."

Theo laughs, "I’m not surprised."

"What’s yours?"

"Die Hard."

Stiles snorts, "I’m not surprised."

Theo throws his head back and laughs, almost toppling off the bed. Stiles flies up, grabbing his arm to stop him. They both freeze. Stiles stares at his hand on the other boys arm, he can feel the shift of the muscles beneath his fingertips. When he looks straight ahead, his eyes are inches from Theo’s, so close he can see every different spec and detail in his blue eyes. It’s overwhelming, their nicotine scented breaths mingling between them as they breathe.

Stiles pulls back, letting go of Theo’s arm and laying back down. He clears his throat awkwardly, heart hammering in his head. He takes another cigarette out of the packet, lights it and takes a drag. He feels himself calm immediately.

"Favourite book?"

"To Kill a Mockingbird. You?"

"I don’t read."

Stiles laughs at that.

"Favourite TV show?" Theo asks.

Stiles doesn’t need to think twice. "It’s a tie between Criminal Minds and Friends."

"I’ve never seen Friends."

Stiles sits up so quickly he gets head-rush.

"You’ve never seen friends?!" He almost shrieks.

Theo looks at him with wide eyes, "Nope. Why?"

Stiles is why before he’s finished talking, swiping his laptop off his desk and bringing it back to the bed.

"Sit up," he says. "I need to educate you on good television."

Theo laughs, sitting up and scooting to rest against the headboard. Stiles sits next to him, pulling his knees up and placing the laptop between them.

"God," he mutters, "I actually can’t believe it. You were actually doing really well until _that!_ "

"I was doing well?" Theo says, and when Stiles looks up at him, he’s smirking.

Stiles’ mouth goes dry, and he has to tear his eyes away to stop him from staring. Jesus, he’s a fucking mess.

He opens up Netflix and clicks on _Friends_ , taking them back to season one, episode one.

"Okay," he says, leaning back against the headboard knees still up but leaning slightly towards the side, "prepare to finally witness good television."

Theo laughs again, slouching down too. "I’m ready."

*****

The rain continues. The thunders rumbles have lessened and the wind still howls through the trees. It’s dark outside, the sun having abandoned the sky hours ago.

Theo looks down at the young, small teen curled into his side, head resting on his shoulder, the brown, feathered hair tickling the exposed skin of his collar bone. He doesn’t know when they moved into each other, when Stiles curled into him, or when he fell asleep, but Theo isn’t complaining.

Stiles’ breathing is light, his face is soft and peaceful, laking all the frown lines he normally wears. He looks young, actually like the fifteen year old he really is, instead of the chain-smoking, rebellious teen he’s proven to be in front of Theo since they met at Danny’s party.

Theo’s arm is trapped under Stiles’ weightless body. It’s curled around the boy back, resting on the prominent ribs that Theo can feel sticking out, even through the two sweaters he knows the younger boy is wearing. He can feel the knobs of Stiles’ spine too, jutting out violently through the fabric against Theo’s arm. The boy is skinny - sickly skinny. Yet, in his own way, he is incredibly beautiful. The fragile, breakable frame with too many jarred bones and sharp edges suits Stiles somehow. It suits him in a way he can’t imagine it suiting anyone else.

They’ve been watching Friends for the past two hours before Theo noticed Stiles was sleeping against him. The black bruises under his sunken eyes are enough of an excuse for Stiles to remain in his slumber as episodes pass. They’re nine episodes into season one now, and the time on Stiles’ clock reads **20:22PM**. Theo wonders if he should go, but he doesn’t know if he can slip out from under Stiles without waking him up.

He looks around the room that, despite knowing and seeing Stiles for the last two months, he has never been in. Theo’s only view of the Hale house has been from the drive way when he picks up or drops Stiles off.

The room around him is basic, white and plain. There are no ornaments on the chest of draws. No picture frames, or personal items on every surface. The only thing that showed this room was actually Stiles’, is the overflowing bookcase and the pieces of paper stuck to the walls. Other than the books and the papers, the room is bare and un-lived-in. There is still a tower of cardboard boxes in the corner between the wall and the dresser, probably containing the rest of Stiles’ belongings that he hasn’t unpacked. Theo thinks that is strange - Stiles moved in in August.

Theo reaches over to the bedside cabinet with his fee hand, feeling for his phone he’d put there earlier, when he feels his hand clasp a leather book. He raises an eyebrow and pulls the book into his view. It’s battered and bound with black leather front, spine and back. Suddenly, his phone is no longer interesting and instead, he opens the book.

His eyes widen at the contents.

The drawings inside are breathtaking, drawn with the skills of a professional sketched onto the rough paper. The portraits look like black and white photos, each detail perfect and precise, so lifelike Theo could have mistaken them for taken photographs. Theo knows this book belongs to Stiles, he can tell by the strokes and the articulate detail into every drawing.

Theo is beyond impressed. The quality is astounding, and as he flips through the pages, Theo can see the improvement with each sketch. He reads the dates in the corners, seeing that the first drawing, which is a blossoming rose, and drawn better than Theo could ever wish to draw. Stiles was 13, Theo tells himself, when he started this book.

Theo looks back down at the sleeping teen. He had been drawn to Stiles the first time he noticed him at Danny’s party all those weeks ago. He doesn’t know why; maybe it was because Stiles was so obviously younger than everyone else around him. Stiles had look so vulnerable yet so fierce at the same time when Theo had seen him weave through the dancing crowd and duck into the kitchen.

Theo has come to learn that Stiles is the most complicated person he knows. Stiles hasn’t opened up hugely, but he’s opened up enough for Theo to fill in the blanks. He knows that Stiles is shattered in more ways than one but to stubborn to use the crutches around him to help him back on his feet. He knows that Stiles smokes to forget, that he takes the pills Theo gave him. He hasn’t known Stiles very long, and he doesn’t know every secret, but he’s starting to learn his habits.

There’s shifting at his side, and he looks down in time to see Stiles’ eyes open, ridiculously long eyelashes fluttering before the honey, brown orbs appear, still glazed with sleep.

The glaze disappears in a matter of seconds, and Stiles’ eyes find him.

And then they find his sketchbook.

"What’r you doin’?" Stiles mumbles, voice husky with slumber. He blinks rapidly, eyelashes a blur.

His head still rests on Theo’s shoulder.

"I found your sketchbook," Theo admits. "It’s incredible. _You’re_ incredible."

Stiles frowns, sitting up and limbs stuff from sleeping so curled up. He takes the book from the older boys hands, skin unnaturally cold as it brushes against Theo’s, and places it on the floor beside the bed.

"I’m sorry I fell asleep," Stiles says, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Did I miss much?"

Theo shakes his head, relaxing back against the headboard. He misses the feeling of Stiles’ form against him. "Nah. You were only asleep for about forty minutes."

Stiles hums, and if Theo isn’t mistaken, Stiles looks surprised. Judging by the dark smudges under his eyes, Theo doesn’t think sleep comes often for Stiles.

"Sorry," Stiles mumbles. "I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you."

"It’s fine. You obviously needed it."

Stiles huffs, and Theo wants to believe it was a short laugh.

"I’m going to go to the bathroom," Stiles says, already climbing off the bed, limbs clumsy. "I’ll be right back."

Theo watches him go.

*****

Stiles doesn’t know what to think, as he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, both hands braced on the countertop, of waking up to find Theo looking through his sketchbook. Stiles has kept the book to himself. Like his scars, no one, not even Scott, Lydia or mother, have ever seen the inside of his sketchbook. Stiles doesn’t know why, but it’s something he wants to keep secret. It’s personal, it’s _his_ and he has never shown anyone else the contents inside.

His sketchbook is like his journal. He pours his feelings into his drawings, his emotions into the sketches scratched into the paper.

Theo has seen them. He’s seen them all, and it’s like he’s read Stiles’ journal. Like he’s seen all of Stiles’ secrets.

Stiles doesn’t realise he was rubbing his wrists until he feels the familiar sting of pain. He looks down, his hand clasped tightly around his wrist. He hisses, loosening his fist and pulling up his sleeve: his skin is red and irritated, the scabs of the healing cuts becoming loose. He yanks his sleeve down, rests his hands on the marble counter again. He hangs his head between his shoulders and breaths through his nose, mentally willing himself to _calm the fuck down_.

He needs to go back in his room, he realises. He can’t hide in the bathroom forever. Theo is waiting.

He feels stupid for falling asleep. How could he be so stupid?

He looks up at himself in the mirror, runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes as he exits the bathroom.

Back in his bedroom, Theo is sitting on the bed, but instead of resting against the headrest, he’s sitting on the edge. He looks up when Stiles comes in, lips stretching into a wide smile.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey."

Stiles takes a seat beside him, crossing his legs and tucking his hands in his lap.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles just nods. He looks down at his lap, his hands wringing together, tendons moving under the skin.

Suddenly, a hand comes to rest on his, covering them completely. When he looks up, Theo is much closer.

Their faces are inches apart, so close Stiles can smell the nicotine and lingering taste of coffee from his breath. Stiles is staring directly into his blue eyes.

"I’m sorry about going through your sketch book," Theo says. "I didn’t want to upset you."

"I’m not upset."

"I’m still sorry. I shouldn’t have intruded."

"You didn’t intrude," Stiles says automatically. He can’t stop his eyes from dropping down and looking at the full, plump, pink lips on Theo’s structured face.

Stiles licks his lips and swallows thickly. He suddenly feels self-conscious about his own breath, which he knows probably smells toxically like cigarette smoke. He’s about to pull away, to create a safe distance when suddenly, the gap between them closes and Theo’s lips are crashing against his own.

Stiles breath gets stuck in his throat. His eyes widen, his heart hammering jack-hammers in his chest so hard he’s scared Theo will be able to hear it. Theo’s lips are like a drug, and slowly, Stiles melts against them like warm butter, feeling a sharp bolt fly through his veins like adrenaline. Theo’s lips are moving against his own, their hot breaths mingling—

Someone is knocking against his bedroom door, knuckles rasping against the hard wood.

Stiles snaps back, staring at the door with comically wide eyes. Theo looks as shocked as he is.

"Stiles—" he starts.

"The window," Stiles cuts him off, voice barely audible. He doesn’t take his eyes off the door. "Go through the window."

Theo is off the bed and gathering his clothes from the floor in his hands before Stiles even realises. The window opens and closes, allowing a draft of cold air to rush into the room. Theo climbs over the window sill and drops onto the roof, disappearing from sight.

"Stiles?" The door opens, and Derek stands in the doorway.

Stiles coughs to clear his throat. "What do you want?"

"I’m about to make me and Cora some dinner," Derek says, standing awkwardly in the threshold. "Do you want anything?"

Stiles can’t believe Derek interrupted the most exhilarating moment of Stiles’ life to ask him if he wanted fucking dinner.

"No," he replies. "I’ll get something later."

They both know it’s a lie, but neither of them say anything.

Derek nods and leaves without a word. The second the door closes, Stiles scrambles off the bed and runs to the window, opening it quickly.

The roof is empty.

Theo is gone.

*****

Claudia and Robert phone that night saying they’re going to be staying in New York a little longer, and won’t be back until next Friday.

Stiles doesn’t care. It gives him another five days of freedom.

He sends a text to Theo.

_why did you leave?_

He sits in his room that night, staring at the spot Theo occupied hours before and wonders when the hell he became so attached.

*****

A restless night, plagued with nightmares, is Monday’s welcoming as it dawns fresh and bitter. Stiles gets ready with a knot in his stomach and makes it to school just before the bell rings, since he denied a lift from Lydia - he wanted some time to walk and think, but it didn’t do him any favours. He needed to clear his head, but he didn’t have time to shower that morning so walking was the next best thing.

His first lesson is with Mr Harris, but thankfully passes without event. Stiles hates Harris, and Harris hates Stiles. He’s not sure how hated who first, but right off the bat in freshman year, the teacher has had it out for Stiles.

Of course, the good vibes don’t last long, as when Stiles is walking through the halls on his way to his second lesson, he feels a hand clasp his collar. Being hauled into the school toilets, that never seem to be occupied, and thrown onto the dirty, bathroom floor is not what Stiles enjoyed doing on a Monday morning. And neither is seeing Jackson’s face staring down at him, with a sadastic grin stretching his lips.

Ten minutes later, Stiles stumbles out of the bathroom with a split lip and blossoming bruise on his cheek.

Punching Jackson was probably the biggest mistake Stiles has ever made. The older boy now seems to have dismissed his any and all regards to keeping Stiles’ face bully-free. Apparently, now he has decided he no longer gives a shit if people see that Stiles is bruised and battered. After hissing words filled with abuse and venom to the younger boy, who had barely left a mark on him last month, Stiles has got his violent pay back.

 _Go to school_ , they said. _It will be the best says of your life_ , they said.

Well, 'they' are full of complete and utter bullshit.

Stiles shuffles with his head bowed to his next lesson. It was just his luck that he has history, and now has to spend an entire lesson sitting across from Lydia Martin with a weeping lip and a darkened purple smudge on his face.

The strawberry blonde is looking down at her phone when Stiles walks in, but, as if she senses him coming over, she looks up and her eyes instantly find him. Her face morphs into shock and confusion. Whatever had been capturing her attention on her phone is long gone as her eyes follow Stiles with a sharp gaze as he rounds the tables and sits down with a heavy sigh.

"What happened?" She says immediately. Her voice is even, but Stiles can feel the protective-murder-vibe rolling off of her in thick waves.

"Nothing," Stiles replies. Mr Yukimira walks in, setting his brief case down on his desk at the front. Class begins, the conversations dwindle down and hush as the lecture begins, but Lydia doesn’t stop.

"That is _not_ nothing, Stiles," Lydia hisses, "Who was it?"

Stiles doesn’t know why Jackson waited a month since his stunt to finally take his anger out on his face. Maybe something else set him off.

He can’t tell her it was Jackson. Her and the older boy has always had something special between then, even though Stiles hates the guy and doesn’t want him to have anything to do with Lydia. He believes Lydia deserves better, _much_ better. Lydia is the queen of BHHS, and finding out her boyfriend is a no-good _asshole_ , who beats kids for being smart would crush her, despite her uncrackable ego. He can’t do that to Lydia. She doesn’t deserve to be dragged into the whirlpool of shit that is his life.

"It was just some seniors," Stiles shrugs. The motion makes his chest twinge in pain. Jackson had really done a number on him this time. "It was my fault. I was mouthing off."

"What seniors?" Lydia is speaking to him like a judge in a court room, firing out questions like a machine-gun; fast and emotionless.

"I don’t know— just drop it, will you?" Stiles bursts, shouting. His voice booms in the almost silent room.

"Is there a problem?" Mr Yukimira asks, looking unimpressed yet concerned about the commotion at the back of the classroom.

"No. We’re fine," Lydia says, voice strained.

She doesn’t speak to Stiles for the rest of the lesson.

At lunch, Stiles doesn’t go to the lunch hall and Lydia, who is evidently still annoyed with him, doesn’t drag him there against his will. He escapes out the double doors and sneaks to the back of the building; his personal space.

It was as if someone had flipped a switch during the night. The rain, the wind and the storms have passed, disappeared and only leaving behind a damp on the ground. Now, the sky is a clear blue. Not a single cloud in sight as the spring months begin to roll in. Stiles, despite the warmth, is wearing two t-shirts, a thick flannel and his denim jacket, and he is still cold. His clothes, over sized as usual, do nothing to insulate any warmth into his aching and bruised bones.

He pulls out the emergency packet of cigarettes that he’d retrieved from his locker earlier. He’d have to have a talk with Greenberg soon, he’s down to his last box. He grabs his lighter from the front pocket of his rucksack and ignites the end of the cigarette with a orange glow.

With a fresh dose of nicotine flowing through his veins and sharpening his sleep deprived brain, Stiles grabs his phone, which is unsurprisingly notification-less, and sends another text to Theo.

_why aren’t you answering?_

Stiles doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong.

Was it the kiss?

No— Theo kissed _him_. Theo had moved in first. Surely Theo felt the same way as Stiles? Theo had come onto him, he had watched Netflix with him, they’d talked, they— what went wrong?

Stiles’ mind ponders for the rest of lunch. When he finishes his cigarette, he pops a strip of chewing gum into his mouth to refresh his breath, and hopefully ease the hunger pains that are gnawing at him like a growing cramp.

The young teen manages to stay in school the entire day. The end comes after what feels like days inside the community prison.

When Stiles walks out into the busy courtyard, his eyes instantly catch sight of the black Camaro parked like a king in the car park. Derek stands, tall with all his glory, beside the present he cherishes like a child, and on the other side of the car, climbing into the passenger side, is Jackson _fucking_ Whittemore.

The thought of Jackson actually being in the house that Stiles is forced to call home makes Stiles want to vomit. Or cry. Or both.

If it isn’t for someone walking into his back and almost knocking him off his balance ("Get out of the way, moron!"), then Stiles wouldn’t have realised he had stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes are locked in fear on the black car that is quickly speeding out of the car park. His heart races with nervous energy.

Stiles debates his options as he walks home. There’s a good chance Jackson isn’t even going to be going to the Hale house. Derek is a popular guy, they’re probably going to score girls at the mall, or do whatever cool-guys do. Derek might just be giving Jackson a lift home - maybe his Porsche is in the shop or something.

A heavy headache is forming. Stiles can feel it behind his eyes, pulsing and throbbing like his ribs do when Jackson kicks them. The ground beneath his feet morphs from a concrete sidewalk to dirty forest floor as he enters the reserve. The thick trees offering protection from the winter sun.

Stiles checks his phone again.

No new messages. No missed calls. No a single word from Theo.

 _You’ve blown it. You disease. You scare away everything you touch_.

Stiles is fed up now. The voices are getting too loud. If Theo wants to ignore him, then Theo can do just that.

The Hale house is silent and empty when Stiles gets there. The driveway empty as he walks up it and enters the house. The marble floors, though Stiles has never actually seen anyone clean them, are pristine and dirt-less. Not a single flake of dust touches any part of the dazzling home - apart from in the library.

The stairs cause more grief than Stiles has ever witnessed, Jackson’s bruises sending spikes of pain through his chest. Stiles dumps his bag on his bedroom floor, tossing it with no content of what might be crackable inside, and grabs a handful of clothes before going into the bathroom.

He dumps the clothes on the closed toilet seat, turning on the shower and while it waits for the water to turn hot, Stiles looks into the mirror above the sink.

His cheek, the high bone, is a stained mix of purple and black, hints of blue poking out beneath the grape bruising. His lip is cleanly split, a line going down the plump shape of his bottom lip. It’s swollen, red and angry, standing out like an ugly zit. Stiles is suddenly thankful for his mother’s lack-of-concern for him and her decision to stay in New York. God know what kind of a fit she would have thrown if she was to see these bruises.

The shower helps. His chest is littered with bruises; a messy watercolour painting of purples and blacks. It could be considered artistic if it didn’t hurt so damn much. Stiles is certain none of his ribs are broken, otherwise he’d surely be having a lot more trouble breathing and moving.

The house is still empty when he gets out. Derek and Cora must be loving their social lives while Stiles is home alone, when the one person he so desperately wants to talk to is refusing to answer their phone.

Or maybe just refusing to answer _him._

Stiles settles on the couch with a packet of Oreo cookies and a bottle of water. One episode of Supernatural later (he can’t fantom the idea of watching Friends right now, not so soon after. . .), the cookies and water are in the pipes and Stiles is making his way to his bedroom. He grabs the bag of piles Theo had given him, collecting four pills in the cushion of his palm. He swallows them dry and lays back on his bed. He needs to forget everything. He needs to feel a peace that he hasn’t felt since the last night he was sitting with Theo. He wants to be back on the beach, throwing stones and chain-smoking. He wants Theo’s company, he wants Theo’s presence, his warmth. He doesn’t want to feel so damn _alone_.

In less than five minutes, Stiles is on his feet. He can hear everything; the ticking of his clock, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the birds outside. His eyes are skittish, seeing everything. His limbs feel full of energy, buzzing and electrified. He’s crossing the room, pacing with a bounce in his step.

He turns up his speakers, feeling the bass rumble through his chest.

_Are you insane like me?_

_Been in pain like me?_

_Bought a hundred dollar bottle of champagne like me?_

_Just to pour that motherfucker down the drain like me?_

_Would you use your water bill to dry the stain like me?_

He spins in circles. His socked feet slide across the wooden floor. His head is thrown back, singing his throat raw.

_Are you high enough without the Mary Jane like me?_

_Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?_

_Do the people whisper 'bout you on the train like me?_

_Saying that you shouldn’t waste your pretty face like me?_

He digs his blunt nails into the flesh of his arms. He scratches aimlessly, clawing at his palm sin and leaving violent, red lines.

_You can’t wake up, this is not a dream_

_You’re part of a machine, you are not a human being_

_With your face all made up, living on a screen_

_Low on self-esteem, so you run on gasoline_

He sings loud, voice out of tune but he doesn’t care. No one is around. His thoughts are racing, heart pumping hard.

_Are you deranged like me?_

_Are you strange like me?_

_Lighting matches just to swallow up the flame like me?_

_Do you call yourself a fucking hurricane like me?_

_Pointing fingers 'cause you’ll never take the blame like me?_

Stiles feels light. Invisible. He leaps into the bed, twisting in the bedsheets and giggling like a sugar-fuelled child.

He needs to do something. His energy is boiling up.

_You can’t wake up, this is not a dream_

_You’re part of a machine, you are not a human being_

_With your face all made up, living on a screen_

_Low on self-esteem, so you run on gasoline_

His bookshelves need rearranging. He orders them in colour groups, then rips them out and reorders them in alphabetical order by title, then he does it again by author.

_Oh, oh oh oh_

_I think there’s a flaw in my code_

_Oh, oh oh oh_

_These voices won’t leave me alone_

He rearranges his laptop desk. He organises all of his music into playlists of mood, genres and years of release.

His hands are restless. He grabs his sketchbook and draws mindlessly.

_Well my heart is cold, and my hands are cold_

He draws Theo. It’s jittery and rushed, but it looks like him. He’s drawn the softness of his hair, slick as silk and shiny with hair gel. The delicacy of his blonde eyelashes, light and gentle. He’s added the sharp, toned structure of his face, defined jawline and chizzled cheekbones.

 

He is sitting on the wooden floor, legs crossed. A circle of empty mugs from his quickly guzzled coffee he’d drunk surround him, leaving a patch bare where he sits. The room is dark; he’d drawn the curtains and left the lights off. The world outside is darkening, the sun being to abandon the sky and plunge Beacon Hills into nightfall.

Stiles flicks his lighter. He watches the flame, orange and blue and flickering. It moves gracefully, rippling like a wave. It’s the only source of light in the room, casting a soft orange glow around him. Keeping the lighter on, Stiles picks up one of the drawings of Theo. He holds it by the top corner, fingers barely gripping the edge as he presses the flame to the opposite corner. The paper catches alight almost instantly. The glow from the orange grows, brightening as the paper burns. Stiles keeps hold of the papers corner, feeling the blazing heart increase as the flames crawl up the paper.

Only when the flame, large and golden, licks the tip of his finger, then does he let go of the sheet that floats to the varnished wooden floor. The paper is curling, withering like a burning child. The blackened edges are disappearing beneath the golden fire until there is nothing apart from grey ash and a black mark on the wooden floor. When the last flames blow out, dying suddenly, the room is swallowed into darkness again.

Fire is so beautiful. So beautiful yet so destructive. It is both natural and man made, yet so uncontrollable by both. You could blink and a small campfire could set an entire forest up in flames.

Stiles feels happy. His vision is blurred, but his body is numb. The pain in his lip, his ribs, his arms, it’s all gone and the voices in his head are mute. Silence by the power of whatever-the-fuck-he-took.

Everything is fine.

*****

Everything is not fine.

Like every high, there is a low, and Stiles realises that when he wakes up hours later, brain feeling like it’s turned to mush and a tennis ball bouncing around the inside of his skull. He had fallen asleep on the floor. He barely has enough energy to crawl from the floor to the bed before he is passing out again.

He wakes up eighteen hours later. He’s missed school, and it’s coming up to Tuesday afternoon.

Stiles ignores the stomach pains and goes back to sleep.

*****

Days pass, and Stiles’ life becomes a dark blur. He goes to school, avoids anyone and everyone. He comes home, gets high as a kite and regrets it the next day when he can barely move his limbs. It still doesn’t stop him from repeating it the next evening.Lydia doesn’t talk to him, Scott gives him concerned glances. The bruise on his cheek turns an ugly yellow, fading out and almost blending with his pale skin.

The Hale’s spend most of their time out. Even when Stiles doesn’t get up for school, neither of them bother to knock on the door to even see if he’s still alive. With Claudia and Robert still in New York, Stiles pretty much has the run of the house to himself until dinner, and sometimes even longer. Derek, being high on the superiority list at Beacon Hills High, probably has a long agenda of things to do, like training for basket ball matches, socialising and doing whatever popular and athletic jocks do. Cora, despite her miserable aura, is also quite popular. She’s a Hale - of course she’s fucking popular. Stiles guesses Cora spends her time with friends, shopping in the mall - even though that doesn’t sound like Cora at all.

Stiles, however, has pissed off all of his friends with his extra blunt attitude and Theo, the assholes, still hasn’t replied to any of Stiles’ messages. So, the only thing on the young teens agenda is to swallow pills and sleep. And at the moment, sleep is definitely on the top. As Stiles comes home from school to a once again empty house, not even bothering to change out of the skinny jeans and three sweatshirts he’s wearing, before he flops onto his bed and crawls under the covers.

His sleep is rudely disputed not even an hour later.

The sound is high pitched to which Stiles soon realises, when the grogginess of sleep disperses from his clogged brain, is the doorbell. It takes him longer than it should to get downstairs, still dressed in the rumpled clothes he’d slept in. He’d managed to dodge Jackson during the day, and completed the whole school day without any bruises being added to his collection. The bruise on his cheek is still prominent, though faded to an unattractive yellow and green. His lip has lost it’s swelling, but the cut has gotten worse, with his constant worrying his lower lip. He keeps catching his teeth on the tender flesh and reopening the cut. All in all, he’s looked worse.

When Stiles opens the door, he has to control his limbs not to slam it shut again with all of his mite.

It’s Theo; the golden boy with the sparkly smile and the wallet spilling with cash. He’s standing, dressed in a most likely expensive attire, wearing a pleased smile when the door opens.

"What do you want?"

Stiles may have sounded more bitter than he intuited, and he instantly regrets it when he sees Theo’s smile falter. Stiles pushes the guilt away completely. Theo deserves it. He kissed him and bolted, ignoring all contact for almost a week goddammit!

"I wanted to see you," Theo says. "I’m sorry I didn’t text—"

"Yeah. You seem quite incapable of doing that. Or even replying, obviously that is too hard of a task for you."

Theo looks really guilty now. _Good_ , Stiles decides.

"I’m sorry," Theo apologises, smile wiped from his face. "When I left on Sunday I dropped my phone in the woods. We found it a few days ago, but it was dead with water damage. My new one has only just arrived, and I was on my way over here now to get your number again and give you back your clothes."

Oh. Shit.

_Nice one, Stiles. You complete and utter jackass!_

Stiles opens his mouth, and when no sound comes out, he closes it. Now, he definitely feels guilty. And angry, at himself. He also feels embarrassed. Very, very embarrassed.

The voice in his head only gets louder.

This is what happens when you get attached: you fuck up.

"I’m sorry— I thought— I didn’t—. . ."

"It’s okay," Theo smiles, soft and kind, "You didn’t know. I probably should have said something earlier." His eyes narrow suddenly, "What happened to your face?"

"Nothing," Stiles says quickly. He self-consciously ducks his head, angling it so the bruise is more out of Theo’s vision.

Theo pulls out a brand new phone, large and slim and a dirt less silver. The screen doesn’t even have any finger marks on it yet.

"Can I?" Theo asks, motioning to his phone, and then to Stiles.

"Oh— yeah," Stiles pats his jean pockets, feeling for his phone when he realises it is still upstairs. "It’s in my room. Do you. . . do you want to come in?"

"I can’t," Theo says, and he actually sounds _sad_ about that. "I’ve got to go to dinner with my parents. It’s fine, just tell me your number and I’ll text you."

"Oh, okay," Stiles recites his number, mistaking it a few times before finally getting it right.

"Great," Theo smiles, looking up at Stiles when he’s finished typing in the digits. "I’ll text you."

Theo steps up, and it takes Stiles a moment to realise what is happening before Theo is kissing him. He jerks, shocked, eyes wide but eventually, he kisses back, melting into the soft lips like he had days before. He ignores the twinge in his healing lip.

The kiss ends before Stiles wants it to. He wants to keep kissing, wants to keep Theo with him, but Theo is already walking down the steps and getting into his car. He waves through the windshield and reverses out of the drive, tires kicking up the dust and dirt as he speeds down the track. In a few seconds, his car is swallowed by the trees, and Stiles is left standing on the doorstep, dazed and lips still pouted.

 

_Chrysalism:_

n. the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof like an argument upstairs, whose muffled words are unintelligible but whose crackling release of built-up tension you understand perfectly.

 

_— tbc._


	6. french kisses

****There are three kinds of highs:

The first high is height: how tall something is or how far above the ground you are. It’s physical.

The second kind of high, is drug induced. It makes you jittery, bouncy and full of energy, like you’ve drank three pints of coffee and ate a pound of pure sugar. This kind of high makes you feel invincible, a kind of ego raiser.

The third kind of high is also drug induced, but it doesn’t make you an energetic idiot. This kind of high is peaceful, it makes you relaxed and soft. It makes you feel drunk without the nausea and inability to walk in a straight line.

Stiles is the third kind of high.

He’s happy, floating on invisible clouds. All the pain in his bones, the deep ache that never leaves his muscles, the heaviness of his limbs, has all disappeared with the few drags of the joint.

He’s laying on the roof of Theo’s house, staring up at the clouded blue sky. Theo is at his side, a floating cloud of white asmoke rising above their faces. Warm fingers interlock around his cold ones, squeezing gently in a silent, comforting reminder. A reminder that he isn’t alone.

It’s been a week since Theo kissed Stiles on his doorstep. A week of awkward conversations and tense cuddling, that soon melted into comfortable talks and movie nights. The pair have become increasingly content around each other. Theo isn’t bothered by Stiles’ silence, by his bitter sarcasm. He fills the silence for Stiles, and laughs at his sassy comments.

Theo actually witnessed one of Stiles’ bad days yesterday.

It took three months for Theo to see one of Stiles’ 'bad days'. After Stiles spent an entire day in bed, ignoring his phone and lying to his oblivious mother by pretending he is too sick to go to school, the older blonde had become inpatient with Stiles and had climbed through his bedroom window. Stiles had been cocooned in a mass of blankets and pillows, skin pale and eyes sunken. From the moment the huge house became empty hours before, Stiles had been switching between purging, cutting and losing himself in the suffocating voices inside his head. His mind had been torturing him, swallowing him in a sea of violent dreams. Theo had offered no words of worthless comfort. Instead, the older boy had climbed under the covers, arms snaking around Stiles' thin waist and pulling their bodies close together. Stiles had melted into the warm body, the voices evaporating from his mind like a drifting cloud of smoke. Theo hadn’t said a word, and the pair remained in a peaceful silence until Stiles finally asked why Theo was there. The older boy had gone on to say how he had been worried, that Stiles’ unanswered messages had lead Theo to believe something had happened, so he thought he’d check up on him.

Normally, Stiles despised any and all company when he has a low day. Just the presence of someone else in the same room as him has him wanting to throw the closest things to him into a wall, screaming in a fit of rage and frustration because he never has any idea why he’s so _angry_.

But Theo doesn’t make him feel like that. Theo makes Stiles feel warm, like melting butter. Theo is like a dream catcher, gathering all of his negative emotions and making them disappear. Theo is like a fresh of breath air. He’s like a drug that makes Stiles so high and so happy.

Stiles can feel himself becoming addicted.

The first time Stiles sept over Theo’s house, it had been an accident. He wasn’t intending to say the night after they settled on the couch to watch _Stand By Me._ Stiles isn’t even sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke up hours later, with the Thursday morning sun bleeding through the open blinds and casting a bright glow into the room. He’d sat up quickly, scrambling for his phone and was surprised to see no missed calls or notifications. Stiles had been kind of insulted that his own mother hadn’t even tried to call him - she probably hadn’t even acknowledged that her son wasn’t home.

Now, it’s Saturday. Theo’s parents are absent, and the older boy hasn’t specified where they are, but Stiles doesn’t care. He’s slept over the nights before, beyond comfortable in Theo’s warm arms. They lay in, not getting out of bed till noon. Stiles has actually slept through the night, something he’s only found himself doing when in the company of the older boy.

Stiles closes his eyes against the glaring sun. A gentle wind has picked up, traveling through the air like cars on a motor way. It brushes against his face, caressing his skin and fanning through his brown hair.

"Do you want another?" Theo asks, voice husky.

Stiles knows he’s referring to the joint. Their second one, as their first had sent them into a sensational bliss that they don’t want to disappear.

Stiles nods, eyes still closed, and when Theo passes the rolled stick, Stiles brings it between his lips. The affects are almost immediate, after inhaling so much already, every drag is like another soft buzz, slowly inching them closer to an unknown edge.

Stiles opens his eyes. "That cloud looks like a flower."

Theo shifts next too him, probably looking for the cloud, so Stiles lifts his slender wrist and points into the sky.

Theo hums, "That one," he points, "looks like a half-moon."

Stiles follows his gaze, finding the white in the sky.

He scoffs, "Pft, no. That’s not a moon, that’s obviously a boat turned on it’s side. See, you can easily see the masts."

"I don’t know what boats you’ve been on, but I’ve never seen a boat like that."

"It looks like the ones you’d draw as a child. With the half circle, and a bunch of sticks coming off the top."

Theo chuckles, chest bouncing. "Or, it could be a banana."

Stiles laughs - way more that he should. It’s funny, right?

It isn’t funny, but Stiles can’t stop giggling now.

Until a pair of lips touch his jaw, just under his ear, working it’s way along the line.

Stiles tops giggling immediately and melts like ice cream on the roof. The kisses leave a soft trail until they finally reach the corner of his lips. Stiles turns his head, capturing Theo in a slow, sweet kiss.

Stiles enjoys kissing Theo, more than he had imagined he would. He’s never really kissed someone before, and Erica and Isaac don’t count - they were too long ago, and they didn’t mean anything. For years, Stiles hasn’t known if he’s liked girls or boys. He thought he had a crush on Lydia when they first became friends, but the feelings didn’t change into anything, and if anything, they disappeared all together. Stiles didn’t get it. When he kissed Erica, when he kissed Isaac, they both just felt like a pair of lips, and it just made Stiles confused.

But now, he realises; the difference between kissing a girl and kissing a boy, is the connection.

Stiles wants Theo, so the kisses they share are like volts of adrenaline, sparks of energy flying through his veins and turning his blood thick and hot. It makes his head swim, limbs becoming uncoordinated. Theo does that to him, and Stiles just can’t get enough.

They break apart, puffing from lack of air. Stiles rolls onto his side, face inches from Theo’s. They lay in silence, the only sounds being their calm breaths and the whistling wind.

Theo raises a hand, running it through the messy locks of Stiles’ hair. The younger boy nearly _mews_ at the feeling of the soft fingers gently coursing across his scalp. Stiles’ eyes flutter close, his body relaxing in a way that hasn’t happened in months. He’s never felt so peaceful.

"Do you want to get something to eat?"

_Well, Theo, that is one way to ruin a good moment._

Stiles’ eyes open. "Um. . ."

"Come on," Theo sits up, retracting his hand from Stiles’ hair. "I’m starving, and you must be too."

Theo crawls back through the window, leaving Stiles alone on the roof. The older male has become used to Stiles’ eating antics. He’s learnt that eating is like a foreign action to Stiles if it doesn’t involve purging straight after. Theo had first caught Stiles in the act the first night he slept over, when the older boy had been standing out the bathroom door without Stiles knowing. Theo had flashed Stiles a hurt and confused look when he left, but not a single remark of anger or disappointment. Ever since, Stiles knows Theo keeps a close eye on Stiles whenever they eat, and either occupies the bathroom himself or doesn’t give Stiles an excuse to leave.

"You coming?"

Stiles is broken out of his thoughts, finding Theo’ head poking through the open window.

"Uh— yeah. Yeah, I’m coming."

Theo’s kitchen reminds Stiles of a sale in an advert. It’s clean— _obsessively_ clean, considering Theo’s parents haven’t been home in days. Despite the breathtaking interior, the crystal white cabinets and the grey work tops that look like pure diamonds, it doesn’t have a fragment of personality. There isn’t a splash of colour; it’s all grey and white. There isn’t anything on the fridge, there isn’t a pot on the window sill filled with pens and bits and bobs.Everything is tucked away in cabinets, unseeable. It is plain and bare, like the rest of the house, Stiles had quickly discovered. The lounge is the same; the only possessions on show are photo frames. Nothing else.

It is bleak, and had been slightly uncomfortable to begin with.

Theo is by the fridge when Stiles walks in.

"I don’t fancy cooking," he says after he turns away from the fridge, the door closing by itself. "Waffles?"

Stiles doesn’t make a move to answer, because Theo is already pulling a ready-made packet out of the bread cupboard and putting four in the toaster. In minutes, the smell of fresh waffles wafts through the kitchen.

Stiles sits down the breakfast bar and pulls out his phone from his pocket.

He has a text from Scott:

_you wanna come to the beach? we’re all meeting down there at 3. I can pick you up?_

Stiles looks at the phone, to Theo, and then back to the phone.

_no thanks. maybe next time._

_are you sure? we haven’t seen you in ages. everything alright?_

_everything’s fine. i’m busy today. i promise._

Stiles returns his phone back into his pocket, but the second his fingers retract from the device, it buzzes again.

This time, it’s from Lydia.

_Who are you with?_

Lydia seems to have forgiven Stiles over the seniors incident. Stiles doesn’t know why, considering he’s been skipping classes for the past week, but the redhead seems to have let it go completely.

He texts back:

_someone._

_You’re with Theo, aren’t you?_

Stiles inwardly curses. Lydia had discovered it was Theo days ago, and although she didn’t reveal her sources, Stiles is pretty sure she spoke to Derek. The older boy has probably seen Theo pick Stiles up in his car most mornings before the pair drive off in the opposite direction to Beacon Hills High.

_yes, i am. now leave me be so i can spend time with him._

_You’ve been spending a lot of time with him. Just be careful._

_yes mother._

_Don’t sass me, child. If I was your mother, you wouldn’t be running around with older boys and skipping classes._

_you don’t have to worry about me._

_I always will. Be safe._

_you too. drown jackson for me._

Stiles slides the phone back into his pyjama pants pocket, just in time to see a plate slide in front of him.

"I’m not hungry," he says, looking from the plate of two steaming waffles, up to Theo.

"Just eat one. For me," Theo says, sitting opposite him. Theo says his words with such clarity, dripping with so much love and affection, that Stiles forces himself to push away all the thoughts about how much fat and sugar is in the snack beneath his nose.

Stiles cuts off a triangle with jerky hands. He raises it with his fork, staring at the golden, brown blob on the end. He can feel Theo’s gaze on him, so he dumps the waffle in his mouth and starts chewing.

He manages one waffle. It tastes like butter on cardboard, but the happy smile Theo flashes him when he finishes it is all the encouragement he needs.

The sun has set. The night is crawling in. The sky had turned a dusty blue, hints of pink and orange sitting on the horizon. The hills are black silhouettes, grey patches of cloud hovering above them, before the sun fell completely. Now, scattered stars are visible in the blanket of blue, standing out like flakes of snow in brunette hair. The headlights of Theo’s car light up the road in a harsh, white glow, illuminating the dirty tarmac as they speed along.

Stiles sits in the passenger seat, looking glum and nervous. Theo isn’t sure what was said, but he knows Claudia had phoned her son earlier that day, and when he returned into the living room where they had been laying, Stiles look utterly miserable, stating he needed to go home. Theo had offered to drive him and thankfully, Stiles had accepted the offer, as it is quite a long walk home - especially at night.

Theo doesn’t want Stiles to go home. He feels like he is giving back someone his favourite toy, and it angers him to think of how Stiles is going to continue to be mistreated in his own home, and there is nothing Theo can do about it. The past week were Stiles has basically moved in, has been the best days Theo has had in a long time. Stiles’ presence is like a riot of colour in his life, filling the void of his absent parents. Stiles will do anything to make Theo happy, and the older boy knows that. Stiles is the kind of boy, he has come to realise, who will drop anything and everything he is doing just to meet with Theo.

"Are you okay?" Theo asks, breaking the suffocating silence of the car.

Stiles shifts, before answering, "Yeah. I just. . . I just don’t want to go home."

"You can come over whenever you want," Theo offers, "You know that."

"I know," Stiles says with a jerky nod. He looks like a small boy being punished, head bowed and voice sad.

"You’re mum is probably just worried," Theo replies. And, you need to go home at some point - you can’t keep wearing my clothes."

"Why?"

"Your size is much smaller than mine. Not that I don’t like you in my clothes," Theo actually loves it when Stiles wears his clothes. He looks so adorable, swarmed in jumpers too large for him and Theo’s boxers.

Stiles chuckles, before the car is plunged into silenced once again.

Theo continues down the dark road, taking the last turn and the smooth ground turns rough and bumpy as they drive along the dirt track towards the house. When it comes into view, Theo feels the tension grow in the car like a fungus, choking them.

He stops in front of the house, killing the engine and turning to look at Stiles, who is staring up at the house.

"I don’t want to go in," Stiles whispers.

"I’ll call you tonight," Theo says, "before you go to sleep."

Stiles looks at him. His face is unreadable, emotions masked.

"Thank you," he murmurs, "For everything."

Stiles reaches across the centre console, planting a sweet kiss on Theo’s lips that the older boy eagerly returns. Their lips move in sync, heat beginning to appear. Theo cups Stiles’ cheek, thumb running over the prominent cheekbone. His hand slides down the boys slender neck, reaching behind to rest on the top of his back, fingers running over the knobs of his spine.

They pull away, short of breath. Stiles stares at him, whiskey eyes swimming in thought and arousal.

"I love you," Theo breaths, his hand touching the soft skin of Stiles’ neck. Fingers connecting the scattering of moles dotted across the milky surface.

Stiles stiffens as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

"I. . . I— I. . ."

He doesn’t finish.

Suddenly, Stiles wretches away like he’s been burnt. His fingers shakily fumble with the seatbelt unit it comes loose. The boy practically falls out of Theo’s car in a manic scramble, before he’s running up the house and disappearing inside.

*

_What have you done?_

_What have you done?!_

_You IDIOT!_

_You’re really fucked up now._

_You’ve blown it._

_He hates you._

_Theo hates you._

Stiles’ chest is tight as he slams the front door of the Hale house. His mind feels foggy, the leftover drugs roaming his system making themselves known. He can feel his erratic heartbeat pounding in his chest, his blood roaring in his ears, a sickening reminder of what just happened was _real_.

He just ran out of Theo’s car.

After the older boy admitted he loved him.

"Stiles?"

Stiles turns from where he’s resting his forehead against the cool wood of the closed front door. His nerves are far from calm, hands shaking like he’s been holding them in a freezer for hours. He can’t face his mother. He can’t bare the thought of listening to her shout and scream at him, not when he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.

"Stiles, is that you?" Claudia appears from the top of the stairs. She’s dressed in a robe, hair tied back in a loose bun like she does before bed. When she see’s it is her son, she begins to quickly descend the stairs, her bare feet padding on the marble floor.

"Mum—"

"Shh," she says, approaching quickly. She raises her arms, and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat.

_This is what you get, you—_

Stiles makes a sound, mixed between a yelp and a squeak, when his mother pulls him into her chest, arms wrapping around his bony shoulders.

His mother is hugging him.

"I thought you ran away," she whispers into his ear. Her head is resting on his shoulder, and Stiles can feel her breaths coming out in shakes, wavering. The worn fabric of his coat begins to dampen, and he can feel his mother jerk with her sobs.

"Mum, I’m—"

Claudia pulls away, the sharp action cutting Stiles off.

"Why didn’t you come home? Where were you? The school have been phoning, why haven’t you been turning up? Is something wrong? Do I need to call Melissa? Do you need to go back to see Mrs Martin? Do you—"

"Mum!" Stiles cuts off his mother’s rambling questions. He takes a deep breath, the action feels like it rattles his ribs. "I’m fine. I was just staying at a friends—"

"Who?"

Stiles falters. Does he tell her about Theo?

"Scott’s."

Claudia stares at him blankly. "Nice try," she says, coldly. "I phoned Melissa a few days ago. She said you haven’t been over in weeks. Now, I will ask again. Where were you?"

"Theo’s," Stiles says, choking out the words. The name is like a gunshot ringing through the silent house. Stiles wonders if everyone else is asleep, or maybe they are just sitting in the shadows at the top of the stairs, listening.

"Theo? Who is this Theo? And why is he encouraging you to skip school?" Claudia shouts. Her eyes widen suddenly, "Oh— God! Is he older? Are you dating an adult? Stiles, you’re barely fifteen!"

"He isn’t older!" _Lie_. "He goes to school out of town. They have different term timetables and he was off." _Lie. You’re getting better at this_. "He’s just a friend."

The words feel bitter on his tongue. He’s lucky if Theo even wants to be his friend after what just happened.

Claudia doesn’t look convinced. "We will discuss this in the morning. But, from here on out, you are grounded."

Stiles’ eyes widen, hardening. He grounds out, "For how long?"

"I don’t know," Claudia says. "Until I feel like I can trust that you won’t skip school and stay at some boys house for four days in a row! You scared the hell out of me, Stiles! Do you realise that? I thought you’d ran away. I thought you were missing!"

Stiles looks at his feet and mumbles, "Sorry."

He wants to scream ta his mother that he isn’t happy in this 'home', and that is why he stayed at Theo’s. That he skipped school so he could miss out on the weekly beatings and instead stay with the person who makes him most happy.

He can’t tell her that. No way.

"You should be," Claudia snaps. All the worry and warmth that had been in her voice when he just got home is drained and gone. "Now, go to bed."

The hallway is empty when Stiles gets to the top of the stairs. No one had been listening. Stiles walks down the dark hallway and enters his room with a quiet click of the door.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, the water works break. His legs become jello, and he slides down the door until his butt hits the cold floor. He pulls his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins and resting his head on his knees. He sobs, hard and sad. He feels like he’s suddenly made of lead, bloodstream frozen and mind trying to swim against the current.

All he can think about is how he has ruined _everything_.

Theo doesn’t phone. The night drags along silently.

Stiles doesn’t find the courage to message Theo, not until after four in the morning. He hasn’t moved from the floor. He hasn’t slept a single moment. His eyes are sore and puffy, red rimmed. The tears stopped hours before, but only because he was too exhausted to cry anymore.

His fingers shake as he types on the screen pad.

_i’m sorry. i totally get if you don’t want to see me again. my mum grounded me so you won’t have to see me anymore._

He can feel the panic attack crawling up his throat. It’s suffocating him, like a cold hand winding around his neck and squeezing and squeezing and squeezing.

Stiles scrambles up, crawling along the floor and reaching between the mattress. All the air has been sucked out of the room. He’s choking on nothing, gasping like a fish. His entire body is shaking, trembling and quaking. He feels the cool metal of blade between his fingers before he pulls it out. The silver reflects the moonlight that bleeds through the large windows of his bedroom, shining like a spotlight on the blade.

Stiles doesn’t hesitate before he runs the blade along the skin of his wrist.

Eight cuts later, the panic attack is gone, and his phone buzzes.

_i could never hate you._

*****

The next morning, Claudia finds her son sitting on the back door step with his sketchpad open in his lap. She’s never understood where her son has got his artistic antics. She certainly can’t draw, and as far as she knew, John never showed an ounce of interest or skill in art either.

Yet, here she is, admiring her son’s stunning skills as he brushes the pencil over his paper, shading in what looks like a breath of hair, floating in the wind. The rest of the drawing is a light outline, barely visible from where Claudia is silently watching from a few steps away.

Claudia loves Stiles. She’s never imagined a day she wouldn’t. She’d do anything for her only child, the boy she’s carried and raised.

But Claudia is loosing her patients. The wedge between them is becoming larger, pushing the mother and son further away. Stiles is becoming reckless, Claudia knows this. She knows this from his skipping school, the smell of nicotine in his breath and clothes, the distant look in his eyes. She can’t decide if she is more angry or worried.

Claudia wants to know who this 'Theo' is. The said boy has been occupying Stiles for days on end, keeping him from attending school and stopping him from coming home. Stiles has never been a lover of school, even before he was transferred to high school a year early and attends it sooner than he should. But Stiles had fitted in high school just fine. He’s made a steady group of friends, all successful and well-behaved students; a group of sensible role models that Claudia has always hoped will shape Stiles to become the ambitious, curious student he once was.

Claudia has debated for a while whether she should send Stiles back to see Mrs Martin, wondering if she might be able to help him. She decides against it in the end. It didn’t help the first time around, so it definitely won’t help this time.

Claudia walks up behind her son, bending down and resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Stiles—"

Her son cries out, in fright or shock, she doesn’t know. Claudia stumbles back, putting her hands up in an instant surrender, when her son turns to look at her with wide eyes.

"Sorry," she says, breathless.

Stiles doesn’t reply. He climbs to his feet unsteadily, and walks into the kitchen. Claudia watches her son put the closed sketchbook down on the kitchen island, before taking a glass from the fresh washing up and filling it with water.

"Would you like some breakfast?" Claudia asks, noting the lack of. . . _anything_ on her son, who seems all skin and bones as he stands in an oversized sweatshirt and some tartan pyjama pants.

"No, thanks," Stiles replies. His voice is rough, raspy. He puts the now empty glass down and turns back to his mother. "So, where do you want to start? Are you going to shout about the school, or the sleepovers?"

Claudia stares at her son, who spoke with too much ferocity. "Why have you been skipping school?"

"Because it sucks."

"That’s not a good enough excuse, Stiles," Claudia scolds. "We all have to do things in life that we might not enjoy, or want to do. But school is essential. You have to go."

Claudia bites her tongue hard when Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Maybe school would be better if it wasn’t filled with a bunch of assholes."

"Language," Claudia hisses. Her expression softens somewhat, "Is someone being horrible to you? If they are, you need to tell me, Stiles. Or a teacher—"

Stiles barks a sudden, bitter laugh. "I am _not_ going to a teacher, and I am definitely not speaking to you about it. I can handle my fights on my own."

_And I don’t want my face pummelled in for being a little wimp._

"You’re getting into physical fights now?" Claudia shouts. Now, she is angry. "Stiles, you could get expelled!"

"Oh, big fucking whoop!" Stiles snaps.

"Yes, big whoop!" Claudia shouts again, getting louder, "That’s your future, Stiles! It’s a big deal!"

"Like you care."

"I’ve always cared. Don’t you dare pull that card on me," Claudia pauses, "Can you imagine what your father would be thinking right now? If you knew what you were doing, with the smoking and the skipping school. You’re throwing your life away!"

Stiles’ face goes blank. A dark glint flashes in the whiskey eyes that resemble Claudia so clearly.

"And how would dad feel if he knew how much of a shit parent you have become?"

Claudia doesn’t know what comes over her. She doesn’t know what happens, but suddenly, her hand is raised and a painful slap lands on her son’s cheek.

Stiles’ head whips to the side with the strength of the smack. His cheek instantly glows red, shaped in the faint resemblance of a hand.

Claudia’s hands come up to her mouth, hovering in pure horror. "Stiles, I—"

She breaks off when Stiles looks up at her, his eyes filled with tears, jaw locked. His eyes are stone cold, distant and locked away. Without a word, Stiles grabs his book and runs out of the kitchen.

*****

Claudia sends Derek to get Stiles when dinner is ready. The teen isn’t sure why he has to do it, but he is fairly certain it has something to do with finding Claudia sitting at the breakfast bar earlier that day, sobbing her eyes out.

Derek had been woken up earlier that day by the sound of a door slamming, and instantly, he knew Stiles had come home. The younger boy has been absent from all of their lives during the entire week. Not that Derek is ever going to voice it, but he has kept his eye out at school, looking for Stiles and to see how he is, but that would involved the teen actually turning up.

Now, Derek knocks on the bedroom door with his knuckles. From what he can hear, beyond the door is silent.

"Stiles?" Derek says, "Dinner’s ready."

The faint sound of shuffling is suddenly heard, before the door swings open wide.

Derek barely manages to stop his eyes from widening. He maintains his usual expressionless upfront, but his mind is reeling.

Stiles looks truly rough; the combination of the bruised under eyes, lifeless gaze and gaunt face, mixed with the purple bruise on his cheek, make Stiles look like he’s truly been shoved through the gates of hell and kicked back out.

Derek doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to act. He follows his instinct, and just walks away.

It’s five minutes into dinner before Stiles finally appears. Instantly, the room is filled with tension. The conversation between Cora and their father dies out like a flame deprived of oxygen. Stiles’ eyes skirt from each member in the room, pausing on Claudia, before they drop and he walks to the table.

Time is dragged is silence, and not the kind of silence that is comforting. It’s thick and stuffy. Derek keeps shifting in his chair, desperate to do anything to make the room less suffocating.

Each Hale practically wolfs down their dinner, and when Derek looks around, he sees that neither Claudia or Stiles have touched their food.

"Is something wrong?" Cora asks, face drawn with a displeased expression.

Derek mental face-palms at his sisters lack of care in her words.

 _Subtle, Cora_ , he thinks. _Real subtle_.

Stiles visibly stiffens, not taking his eyes of a certain spot on the table.

"No, Cora," Claudia says, a forced smile on her face. "Everything is fine."

Cora scoffs, shaking her head. "Sure," she replies.

"Cora," Robert snaps, "Stop being rude."

"I’m not being rude," Cora laughs harshly. " _They’re_ the ones being rude! _They’re_ the ones ruining dinner, not me. I’m not sitting in silence, creating an atmosphere and not eating their dinner."

"Cora," Derek warns.His sister needs to calm the hell down.

"What?" Cora turns to look at him blankly, raising a single eyebrow.

" _Stop_ ," he says, his voice calm.

"Why?" Cora snaps, voice rising. "I’m just saying exactly what _you’re_ thinking!"

The sound of chair legs scraping against the floor fills the room in a high pitched moan. Derek looks to see Stiles rising, his plate in his hand. They all watch, in silence, as Stiles rounds the table, coming over to Cora and—

Dumping his dinner in her lap.

"Sorry for ruining your precious meal," Stiles says bitterly. He slams the bowl down on the table, hard enough to leave a dent in the rich wood, before he storms out of the kitchen. The sound of the front door slamming sounds a moment later.

Derek is choking on swallowing his laughter, and Cora, who is now covered in spaghetti and meatballs, glares at coldly. He covers himself quickly with an awkward cough.

"Cora," Robert begins, "go and clean yourself up. Derek—"

"Wait," Cora interrupts, "you’re just going to let that little _shit_ leave?" She snarls, "After doing _this!?_ "

"Cora!" Robert roars. "Go and clean yourself up, now!"

Cora leaves silently, but the scowl isn’t wiped from her face. Bits of spaghetti falls on the floor when she rises from her seat and leave a trail of tomato remnants as she leaves the room.

"Derek," Robert continues, voice somewhat calmer but still clearly strained. Derek knows his father is trying to contain his temper. "Go to your room. Me and Claudia need to talk."

"Do you want me to clean up?"

"No, son. Just give us some space."

Derek nods and complies, exciting the kitchen silently.

But he doesn’t go to his room. Instead, he stands just beyond the kitchen archway entrance, far enough not to be seen but close enough to hear what is being said.

It takes a few silent moments before anyone speaks.

"Robert," Claudia starts, her voice still fragile from crying earlier. "I’m sor—"

"What are you planning to do?" Robert interrupts.

"Excuse me?"

"About your son," Robert speaks low, tone thick with authority. "He needs to be contained, Claudia. You can’t let him keep doing this!"

"Contained? He isn’t an animal, Robert!"

"He’s acting like one, and I am not having that in my own home."

"This is Stiles’ home too," Claudia replies, voice suddenly quiet.

"Not if he keeps acting like this. Claudia, I think it’s time you started considering those schools I suggested—"

"I am not sending my son away, Robert."

"You don’t have to. There are different alternatives to boarding school. Maybe a more controlling academy, or a more military organised agency that can keep him in line."

"He is not a soldier. He’s a fifteen year old boy!"

"A fifteen year old boy who’s skipping school and making all our lives a living hell, Claudia!" Robert shouts. "Can’t you see? He’s ruining everything we have! He’s making us fight, he’s making us annoyed, he’s affecting my kids—"

"I know, and I’m sorry," Claudia replies brokenly. "I’m so sorry, Robert."

There is a moment of silence, and Derek assumes they’re hugging. For a fragment of time, Derek feels like he is snooping, but then they start talking again, and Derek feels like a moth to a flame.

"You need to talk to him, Claudia," his father says. "If you don’t, then I will."

*****

Stiles stumbles through the trees like an infant learning to walk. hHis vision is blurred with unshed tears. His hands are shaking so much he can barely keep hold of his phone.

He just wants everything to stop. He wants to curl down, to sink into the damp soil of the forest floor and to never wake up. He wants to open his eyes, and to find himself next to his father, healthy and smiling. He wants to live in a world with no heartbreak, with no pressure and no misery. He wants to wake up and not have to wonder if he can make it through the day without a panic attack or the need to cut his wrists like ribbons, like a pathetic teenager who can’t manage his own feelings. He doesn’t want to be consumed by dark thoughts and loud, manipulative voices that bully him from the inside.

Stiles just wants peace.

But he knows he’ll never get it.

And now, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have anything on him apart from his phone. He doesn’t even have a packet of cigarettes to calm his nerves. He’s a ball of frantic thoughts, negative energy that’s building up and up and soon,he’s going to explode like an atomic bomb. His emotional are whirl pooling. He’s angry with his mother. He’s frustrated because his arm is itching from the healing cuts. He’s hurt because he doesn’t feel welcome anywhere anymore, he’s like an outsider in his own home.

He doesn’t know why he poured his dinner over Cora. He doesn’t know why he became so suddenly filled with fury to the point that he finally _snapped._ He doesn’t know what came over him, but whatever it was, it felt good. It felt food to stand up for himself, to stand up to his bully. Although, doing that to Cora was probably an idiotic action, as he can’t imagine his mother, Robert or the Hale children from letting it go. He’ll just deal with it when he gets home.

Home.

He has to go home. The single word, the two syllables, makes his chest feel like it’s trapped in a tightening clamp. There’s a coil of nausea in his stomach, twisting and turning. Sharp and hot. Bile is crawling up his throat. His skin is crawling, and he barely stumbles to the ride before the small spoonfuls of pasta he’d eaten makes it’s reappearance.

He braces himself on a tree as his stomach spasms, throat burning. His eyes sting, and he realises that that was somehow more unpleasant than purging.

_It’s all about control._

The words bounce around in Stiles’ head, spoken in Allison’s voice from the day she tried to teach him archery as a distraction to his parents divorce. Allison had explained how the control of your hands control the entire flow. It your hands aren’t in control, the bow won’t follow what your hands command and the arrow won’t strike the target.

Everything falls into the balance of control.

Stiles can’t control his life.

Stiles can’t control his feelings.

Stiles can’t control _anything_.

A throat rattling scream rips out of Stiles. He arches his back, shrieking up to the sky like a dying wolf calling for help.

His cry goes unheard, and instead, like some fucked-up coincidence, a flash-bang of thunder sounds before Stiles is suddenly surrounded by pouring rain.

He fumbles for his phone from his pocket, not caring about water damage, or the trembling in his hands that never seems to go away. His heart thumps in time with his tapping fingers, and then he’s pressing the phone to his ear.

As it rings, he stands up straight, pushing himself off the tree and away from his own vomit. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the residue bile and snot. He can feel the water soaking through his thin sweatshirt that provides no protection from the hammering rain.

He didn’t have time to grab a coat before he left the house, and he certainly regrets it now.

The ringing of the phone stops.

"Stiles?" Theo’s voice peels through. "Is everything alright?"

One day, Stiles is going to laugh at how every time Theo answers his calls, he asks if anything is wrong - as if there is _always_ something wrong.

"N-no," Stiles chokes out. His throat burns, voice hoarse and cracking, but he doesn’t care because he doesn’t think he can bare another minute not knowing if Theo hates him or not. "T-Theo, I’m s-s-o s-sorry. I d-don’t—"

"Stiles, why are you sorry? Where are you?"

As if part of some tragic movie, a cradle of thunder rumbles through the forest before Stiles can answer.

Theo’s frantic voice comes through the receiver, barely audible above the treacherous rain. "What is that? Stiles, are you _outside?"_

"Yeah. Yeah, I’m outside," Stiles replies. "I. . . I can’t go home, and I know I screwed up, but—"

"Stiles, where are you?"

"The preserve. I. . . I don’t know how far I’ve walked."

"Okay. Okay, try to get to the road," Stiles can hear rustling in the background. "I’m coming to get you."

The rain is getting heavier. His clothes are soaked through to the skin, chilling his bones and turning his finger tips blue. His teeth are beginning to chatter in rhythm with his frantic heartbeat.

Is it possible to have a heartattack at the age of 15?

Of course it is. If you don’t get out of this damn thunderstorm, a heart attack is going to be the least of your problems—

"—iles? Stiles! Are you there? Stiles!"

Stiles shakes his head, getting rid of the haunting voice. "I’m here. I-I’m here."

"Okay. Well, keeping walking and I’ll try to find you," Theo says. "And don’t hang up."

Stiles does exactly as he is told. His mind is racing a mile a minute, all his thoughts blurring together into a big mess. His feet jerk beneath him. He’s shaky on his legs, but he doesn’t stop because Theo told him to keep walking, and he _needs_ to see Theo.

"Stiles, talk to me."

The younger boy chokes a sob that he fails to swallow back. "I don’t know what to say."

"Tell me why you’re in the woods.

Fabulous suggestion!

"I hate them, Theo. I hate them all."

"Who you hate, Stiles?"

"The Hales. My mum. Jackson. Everyone. I hate everyone in this fucked up fucking world!"

"Do you hate me?"

The question stops Stiles short. It hits him like a train, knocking him so physically that he falters and almost face plants the forest floor.

"No," he finally manages. "You’re the only person I don’t hate."

"Good," Theo says, and Stiles might be fooling himself, but it’s like he can feel Theo’s smile through the phone.

_This is so messed up. When did you become such a cliche?_

As if by some miracle, Stiles comes to a road at the edge of the woods. He wants to drop to his knees and kiss the tarmac in joy, but he doesn’t, because he’s pretty sure the rain has frozen his limbs into icicles.

Stiles is about to tell Theo where he is, when a pair of white headlights glow from down the road. It’s approaching fast, and Stiles runs into the middle of the road, waving his hands above his head. The scar screeches to a stop, brakes whining. It’s barely stationary before the drivers door swings one and a figure - Stiles sure as hell prays it’s Theo - climbs out, rounding the front of the car and running to meet him.

"Stiles!" Theo’s voice reaches him a moment before he does. "Are you ok— what happened to your face?"

A warm hand reaches up and tenderly cups the light bruised cheek.

"Don’t worry," Stiles says.He doesn’t have time to explain that it was his mother. He needs to get something off his chest and lighten the weight on his shoulders. "Theo, I’m s-so sorry. I screwed up. I should have n-never ran off like t-that—"

"Stiles, I don’t care," Theo says, and Stiles can see him smiling in the beams of the glowing headlights.

Stiles stares in disbelief, "Y-you. . . you don’t?"

Instead of answering verbally, Theo holds Stiles’ face in the cushion of his palms, pulling their faces together and locking their lips. The kiss is sweet and hungry at the same time. Dripping with passion and arousal. Stiles lets Theo explore his moth, tongue surfacing every inch. It’s hot and captivating, making Stiles forget that he’s standing in the middle of a thunderstorm, soaking wet and shaken up from his home life.

"Let’s get you back to mine and warm you up," Theo says, pulling away but resting their foreheads together.

Stiles does nothing but not.

 

Later that night, the pair lay side by side. Stiles is laying on his side, hands under his cheek, cradled in the pillow. He’s staring at Theo, who’s eyes are closed and breathing is slow.

"You should sleep."

Stiles jerks. He had thought Theo was sleeping.

"I can’t."

Theo’s eyes open slowly. Stiles has been staring long enough for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. "Why?"

"You’re not mad?"

"Mad about what?"

"That I didn’t say it back."

Theo chuckles softly, "Of course not. You’ll say it in your own time, or you won’t. It doesn’t matter."

"It doesn’t?"

"Not to me."

Stiles falls asleep that night with his face hidden in Theo’s chest.

 

He doesn’t go home for three days. Claudia doesn’t call.

 

He goes back to school on Wednesday. Theo drops him off, kissing him goodbye.

He finds Lydia by his locker, and the red-head wordlessly pulls him into an instant, bone-crushing hug.

When she pulls away, she says, "You have a lot of catching up to do."

Stiles finds it in himself to smile.

Scott hugs him when he see’s him, ruffles his hair and tells him it’s good to have him back.

 

He goes home two days later, but stays with Theo every weekend.

 

November passes like a daydream, and before Stiles knows it, his days are filled with repeating Christmas songs and Christmas sale adverts.

He goes Christmas shopping in the Beacon Hills shopping mall with Lydia two Wednesday’s before Christmas. They get there in Lydia’s red Toyota, the red-head gloating about how she has a big enough boot to fit all their shopping bags in. They spend the entire afternoon there. Stiles gets Scott a new cosy knitted sweatshirt from a brand that Lydia says is 'applicable', which means it’s nice enough for Scott. He gets Kira and Allison matching hat and scarf sets, and Erica a new _Game of Thrones_ box-set, because he knows her’s have been ruined and chewed by her new dog.

Her and Lydia grab a coffee when they finish in a small retro coffee hut just outside the centre.

"So," Lydia starts, munching on a fruit pot she brought, "speak to me, Stiles. How are you?"

Stiles looks up from where he’s stirring sugars into his drink, "You see me almost everyday, Lyds. You know how I am."

"Stiles, you are probably the hardest person to read," Lydia replies, leaning forward on her elbows. She has a serious look on her face that Stiles doesn’t like. "I have no idea how you are."

Stiles looks back down at his coffee.

"Stiles," a soft voice calls and a small, manicured hand reaches across the table, clasping his own. Her skin is warm and smooth, contrasting his own cold and clammy. "Speak to me, kid. Tell me what’s going on."

"Nothing’s going on."

He doesn’t have to look up to know Lydia rolls her eyes. "Stiles, I can smell the bullshit. Something is always going on."

Stiles’ head snaps up. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you’re never one-hundred-percent okay, and that’s okay. You’ve been through a lot," Lydia says. She sighs heavily, "Look, I’m not going to be that friend who says 'it’s okay not to be okay'. It’s true, but hearing it doesn’t help. You’re fucked up, Stiles. You have a lot of problems, a lot I don’t understand."

"You’re not doing a good job at trying to make me talk."

"I’m not trying to make you talk," Lydia snips. "But I don’t want you to bottle it all up. It does not favours. Eventually, you’re going to combust like a shaken cola can, and I’ll be damned if you damage the things around you."

"A cola can?"

"Yes," Lydia replies curtly. "Stiles, whatever going on, speak to me."

"Nothing is going on," Stiles replies. "Nothing more than usual."

Lydia stares at him for a long moment, expression unreadable.

"Okay," she says after a minute. She stabs her fork into her melon and puts the cube in her mouth. "Tell me about Theo."

This time, Stiles rolls his eyes, leaning back and slumping in his chair. "There’s nothing to tell."

"Can you be anymore vague?"

"I think I could if I tried."

Lydia huffs. "Stiles. Stop stalling."

"I’m not."

"I want to know about Theo."

"You know enough about Theo."

"I only know his first name."

Stiles chuckles, "And that is _enough!_ "

Lydia rolls her eyes again, sipping her coffee and finishing off her fruit. "You better start talking, Stiles."

"What’s his second name?"

"I am definitely not telling you that."

"School?"

"That either."

Lydia sighs, exasperatedly. "What’s he like?"

Stiles doesn’t reply immediately.

What _is_ Theo like?

"He’s. . . pretty."

"Pretty?" Lydia laughs. "Eye colour?"

"Blue, with long lashes."

"Oh my!" Lydia gasps, "How mesmerising."

"Shut up."

She laughs some more. "Hair colour?"

"Light brown."

"Describe it to me."

Stiles rolls his eyes, _again_. "Fluffy. Soft. Long on the top, short at the sides. I like running my fingers through it, but I prefer it when he puts his hands through mine."

"Ugh," Lydia groans, "How sweet."

"It’s not sweet."

"It is. Lean or muscle?"

"Muscle?"

"A lot?"

"Enough."

Lydia hums, smiling. "He does sound pretty."

Stiles laughs, ducking his head to hide the smile splitting his face. He feels his cheeks burn a vibrant red. He’s fucking blushing.

"Have you had sex yet?"

His head snaps up. "Lydia!"

"Fair question," Lydia shrugs. "Do we need to have the _talk_ now?"

"No. No, jeez," Stiles shakes his head. "We’re not. . . it’s not like that."

"Stiles, you have spent _days_ around this guys house. Have you really not done anything?"

"Are you saying I should?"

"No. I’m not pressuring you, kid. You’re fifteen, you shouldn’t be doing _any_ of that stuff," Lydia rushes to say, "I’m just surprised. You spend a lot of time together."

"Yeah, well," he shrugs, "we do other stuff."

Lydia’s eyebrow quirks up, "Like what?"

"Smoking. Getting high. Cuddling," Stiles lists. "That kind of stuff."

Lydia huffs a laugh. She finishes her coffee in one last gulp.

"How romantic."

 

Stiles doesn’t know every detail about Christmas, nor does he overly care. He gets the gist of it: Jesus was born in Bethlehem, his parents camped in a stable and was visited by many important people, blah blah blah. The story goes on, changed overtime. The only thing that has stuck is the date: 25th December.

Despite this, only 92% of American’s celebrate Christmas, Christian or not.

Stiles, is part of that 92%.

Morning dawns, the warm winter sun shining through the cracks of his curtains and spilling into the dull room. When Stiles was younger, he’d wake up before the sun showed any signs of rising. He’d whip back his bedcovers, leaping from his bed and sprinting downstairs, always gobsmacked at the presents under the tree. He’d play the _shaking game_ , and make a poor attempt at guessing what’s inside every layer of wrapping paper, before grabbing his stocking from the mantel piece and bounding back upstairs. Instead of retreating back to his own bedroom, he would divert into his parents room, leaping on their bed with a loud laugh. His parents, despite the ridiculously early hour and rude awakening, would smile at him and wish him a Merry Christmas.

Stiles hasn’t done that in years. It wasn’t due to growing up. It was because his parents were not longer there, weren’t together in the same bed on Christmas morning. His father was absent, either at work or sleeping at whatever shabby hotel he could afford at the time.

This isn’t his first Christmas without his father, but it will the be the first Christmas without a phone call. The first Christmas where he won’t hear his fathers cheery voice wishing him a Merry day, promising he’d see him as soon as he could.

Stiles doesn’t wake up happy. He doesn’t leap out of bed and bundle downstairs.

Instead, he wakes up slowly, not even realising he’s crying until the burn in his eyes makes itself known. His cheeks are wet, dry tracks still there from the night before where he’d cried himself to sleep.

He has moments to gather himself, before his bedroom door creaks open and his mother’s head creeps inside. After the dinner incident, Claudia and Stiles have been tense around each other. The day he came home had been an emotional one. Claudia had apologised, spewing stories about his father. Stiles had drowned them out, and hugged his mother to make her stop. He convinced her all was forgiven, but of course, it wasn’t.

"Merry Christmas, love," Claudia says, eyes bright and a soft smile warming her features. She opens the door further, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of Stiles’ bed.

"Merry Christmas."

Claudia smiles down ta him, as if the two words he said are all it’s taken to make her day. "Want to come downstairs? We’ve got presents and Christmas breakfast waiting."

Stiles tries to hard to hide the frown creeping into his face, to mask the hurt and drowning grief he is in.

Claudia must notice. "I know, baby. Today’s going to be tough, but you still have me. You still have a family."

There are so many things Stiles wants to say about that. His mother has no right to say today sis going to be tough, when she probably hasn’t given a second thought at her dead ex-husband. Stiles wants to scream that this isn’t his family, that they will offer no comfort.

Stiles keeps his mouth shut. Just for today, so he can let Claudia and her new family have a pleasant Christmas together.

"Okay," Stiles says, voice weak and quiet. He shifts on the bed, throwing back the covers once Claudia has stood up.

Downstairs, the Hale mansion is decorated like a Christmas wonderland. One of the perks of being rich, Stiles has discovered, is there is never a Christmas decoration with too higha price. Cora has made it evident that she adores Christmas, and has taken it upon herself to spend fuck-knows how much on Christmas decorations that have been haphazardly planted around the house. Every wall has hanging tinsel hanging like bunting, snowmen and Santa’s are located everyone - on tables, on cabinets. Festive ornaments are placed around, covering the tops of any possible table top. The green Christmas tree, which must be at least three or four times Stiles’ height, stands in the corner between the bottom of the stairs and the entrance to the kitchen. It’s covered in golds and reds, the colour co-ordination to it’s peak. Glowing lights wrap around it, tinsel and Christmas decorations sparking in the off coming glow. Beneath the tree, are the presents. Wrapped like something like a scene out of a magazine, all in three different colours - gold, red and silver, topped with co-ordinated bows, tags and ribbons.

Derek and Cora are sitting on the couch, looking over the back when Stiles and Claudia approach. Robert smiles at them both, and it’s the first time Stiles feels like the man _isn’t_ actually faking it.

"Morning, love," Robert says, before he pulls Claudia in for a kiss. Stiles looks away, trying to find somewhere to sit beside the couch. A tugging pulls at his lips, vaguely forming something of a smile, when he hears Cora making vomiting sounds at the sight of their parents. Stiles settles by the unlit fire, facing the room as Robert and Claudia squeeze into the cuddle seat.

"Well, go on then," Claudia says with a wide smile, "Start opening!"

"Cora, dish them out," Robert requests.

Any other time, Stiles assumes Cora would have thrown a fit, rambling off about how she is the one that has to do it. But now, Cora’s eyes light up like a switched on torch, beaming as she scrambles off the couch and fetches an armful of presents.

"I’m going to make some coffee," Stiles announces in a half-hearted mumble, pushing himself to his feet.

"The pot is freshly brewed!" He hears his mother call to his back as he walks through the fairy-lit archway. He grabs a mug and fills it, taking a desperate sip.

When he comes back into the living room, Cora has separated the presents into a pile of gold, a pile of silver, and a pile of red.

"Gold is for Cora, silver is for Derek, and red is for Stiles," Robert explains.

Stiles takes his spot again by the fire, chugging some more burning-hot coffee and not caging about the way it scorches it’s way down his throat. He picks up the closest red present, looking at the glitter label that spells his name in curly, script-like writing, and with _'Love Mum and Robert'_ at the bottom.

Stiles has barely ripped a shed of paper off his first present when he hears a loud, high-pitched squeak. Looking up, he finds Cora staring in shock at a large white box in her hands.

"You bought me a Mac Book?!" She shrieks. Her face is washed with astonishment, mouth spread in a grin that is so wide it’s threatening to split her face. "Oh my God! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Claudia and Robert look pleased, smiling at the teenage girl like she _isn’t_ a spoilt brat.

Stiles spares a glance at Derek, who is holding up a new basket ball uniform.

Stiles rolls his eyes and goes back to opening, pealing the paper back without the ferocity of other children on Christmas day.

In the end, Stiles gets a new sketch pad - one much better than the one he has, ring-bound and better paper - a new set of acrylic paints, watercolour paints and every artistic pencil he can think of. He looks at the brand, slightly taken back because he wouldn’t have been able to afford a packet of charcoal pencils from this company a year ago. Stiles neatly folds his new sweatshirts and plaid shirts into a pile before he gets out his new pencils.

Derek and Cora stand, pulling their father in for a strong hug, thanking him for their new laptops and clothes, and other expensive presents that probably cost more than all the possessions Stiles owns put together. They exchange their _thank you’s_ with Claudia, giving her a hug too, before moving back to their presents.

Stiles stands, feeling awkward and reluctant too, and is quickly engulfed in a hug from his mother.

"Do you like them, baby?" She asks into his shoulder.

Stiles nods. "Yeah. I can’t wait to use them."

Claudia pulls back, beaming with pride. "Good," she says, placing a kiss on his cheek, the bruise long gone and his skin no longer tender. "Say 'thank you' to Robert, and then we can have some breakfast."

Stiles nods, watching as his mother, Derek and Cora all disappear into the kitchen.

He turns to Robert, the man standing tall and square. Stiles can’t help but feel like he is always addresses by Robert as if he is a customer - or a victim.

"Uh. . . thanks. For the gifts," Stiles stammers. "T-thanks for the gifts."

The tension is suffocating him.

Robert smiles - or maybe it is more of a twitch. Stiles is going to cast it as a smile. The older man raises a hand, and it takes all of Stiles’ control not to flinch. He can feel the sting of skin colliding with his skin, the whip of the slap. Robert lands his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, squeezing the jutting bone fondly.

"You’re welcome, Stiles," he says. "I hope you enjoy using them. They are much better than the rubbish ones you had before."

Stiles bites his tongue, trying not to snap that those 'rubbish ones' had been bought by his father, and Stiles doesn’t care about much they cost. Labels don’t matter to him.

Stiles smiles instead.

"Come on," Robert says, removing his hand and heading towards the kitchen.

For breakfast, Claudia has made enough food to feed a pack of wolves. There is waffles, pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausages, and more. All the flavours of sauces Stiles can think off. French toast, normal toast.

Stiles only eats half a pancake. His stomach already feels bloated from the small portion, and the guzzled orange juice he drinks whenever someone looks at him. Despite his small meal, the rest of the food is demolished, not a single strip of bacon or a waffle left.

Stiles excuses himself, taking his gifts upstairs to his bedroom. He walks into the bathroom, and when he walks out twenty minutes later, the pancake is in the drains. He jumps in the shower, washing the grime and sweat off him. Purging has been more of an effort today than most. He isn’t sure why, perhaps it’s because he hasn’t’t purged in over a week. Being around Theo, with the boy who looks at him with such hurt and heartbreak every time he knows Stiles is doing, has made Stiles feel a new kind of guilt. When he’s with Theo, he doesn’t purge, he just eats as little as possible. Despite the boys constant reassurance that Stiles is beautiful, incredible, and all the other false words he provides when Stiles is feeling like his own mind is trying to drive him mad, Stiles knows the purging makes Theo said, so he just doesn’t do it around him.

He must be out of practice.

Stiles made the mistake of stepping on the scales a few days before Christmas. The number staring back at him made him want to grab the closest pair of scissors and physically cut the sickening fat that clings to him, taunting him from under his own skin.

Instead, he’s just made sure he misses dinner because he’s 'tired', and tucks himself in for an early night of horror and bad dreams.

He climbs out of the shower, turning it off and drying himself quickly with the towel. Stiles isn’t sure what the Hale’s do on their Christmas days, but Stiles isn’t planning on staying around to find out.

He dresses in a pair of skinny black jeans and a new hoodie his mother and Robert bought him. It’s soft, a comforting material that is both thick and warm. It’s over sized - probably because Claudia doesn’t actually know her own son’s size - but Stiles likes it that way. It does well to hide the ugliness of his body.

He grabs his old sketchbook but his new pencils, stuffing them into his bag. Just when he is about to leave his bedroom, he spins around and pockets his fathers pencils too. They’re a comforting weight in his pocket as he walks out of his bedroom.

Getting out of the house is going to be impossible, Stiles knows this, as he walks down the stairs and see’s Cora sitting on her sofa, her new laptop on her knees. Stiles has no idea where Derek is - probably brooding somewhere - but he can hear his mothers voice in the kitchen.

"Stiles?" She calls, coming out from the kitchen and frowning at him, "Where are you going?"

"Scott’s," Stiles replies. "It’s just him and Mel this year, so me and Lydia are going over for Christmas lunch."

Claudia looks baffled. "You’re having lunch here, Stiles. It’s Christmas Day. You’re meant to spend it with your family."

 _Scott and Lydia are more of a family than we are_.

"I’ll be back before this evening. I promise."

"No, Stiles—"

"Claudia," Robert interrupts, coming to stand at her side. "If he wants to go, let him go. We can still have a wonderful day, just the four of us."

Stiles has to admit, Robert’s words sting.

He’s out the door before they can see the tears in his eyes.

 

"It’s really a pleasure having you two here today," Melissa says as she passes Lydia the dish of potatoes. "I understand your families probably wanted you at home."

"My mother is actually out of town," Lydia replies. "I didn’t want to spend Christmas alone either."

Stiles doesn’t have to say he is there because he doesn’t feel welcome in his own home. He is close enough with the McCall family for them, Melissa especially, to understand the situation at home and his feelings directed towards his mother.

"Thank you," Stiles mutters, when Scott passes him a dish stacked with turkey and beef slices.

His portion is child-size, but it is more than he normally eats, so no one mentions it. Instead, Lydia and Melissa walk about Lydia’s new makeup collection her mother got her for Christmas, while Stiles, for the hundredth time, tries to convince Scott that _Star Wars_ are the greatest Galaxy movies of all time.

It feels good to eat, Stiles realises, because when Melissa clears the plates and brings in dessert, Stiles’ stomach doesn’t churn or nauseate. It grows with warm hunger, a pleasant feeling against the usual cramps and twinges of pain he normally experiences.

Stiles tells them about all the new art stuff he got; the expensive pencils and fancy paints.

"Well, you can’t knock good quality," Melissa says in a warm tone. "I know it hurts, love. The first times without our love ones are always the hardest. But you still have your mother, don’t push her away. She’s your only parent now."

Melissa’s words hurt and comfort Stiles at the same time. The cold realisation that his mother, the woman who hits him and hugs him, who screams and cries over things Stiles couldn’t give a toss over, is his only blood family left.

"I know," Stiles murmurs.

He feels Scott squeeze his shoulder, a comforting action while Lydia flashes him a kind smile.

Stiles feels a warmth grow in his chest. This is family.

*****

Claudia stares at the scene in front of her, trying to work out why she isn’t pleased.

Derek and Cora aren’t fighting - if anything, they are actually getting along. Robert is talking to Derek about business, and Claudia knows Robert is planning on introducing Derek to his company soon.

Claudia frowns, looking at her plate of roast dinner she has prepared. The rest of her family are enjoying the meal, devouring it with pleasure. But Claudia can’t. Her eyes keep drifting over to the empty chair at the end of the table.

Claudia doesn’t understand why Stiles felt the need to go out, on Christmas Day, of all days. A day when you’re meant to spend time with your family. Claudia knows she messed up when she hit her son, and she’s been swallowing in guilt for the following five days he didn’t come home, but she didn’t think that was any reason to miss Christmas dinner with their new family. Stiles needs to learn he concept of family again, because Claudia isn’t planning on changing their lives anymore. She loves Robert, she loves his kids, and Stiles needs to understand that when you love someone, then you can’t be apart from them.

The day goes on. Claudia spends time with her new family, until the absent child decides to finally make his appearance again.

They’re all settled in the living room, Derek and Robert talking about whether Derek should give up basket ball for a more 'academic subject', when the front door opens and Stiles walks in.

"How was it?" Claudia asks, not even attempting to keep the annoyance and bitterness out of her tone. She’s pissed off, to say the least, because Stiles hasn’t even _tried_ to join them at all today, and instead ran off to the McCall household.

Stiles nods, "Good."

He’s making his way to the stairs, movements fast and slow at the same time.

"Did you eat?" Claudia doesn’t like the sight of her son practically drowning in the new sweater her and Robert had bought him, which is oversized, despite the already small size Claudia had picked out for him.

"Yeah. We had turkey and beef."

"Hmm," Claudia hums. She gets up off the sofa, rounding it and wandering to Stiles by the bottom of the stairs. "You could have had that here, you know."

"I know. But—"

"No 'buts'," Claudia says, her hand flying into the air to silence him. She diverts her eyes, finding that her new red slippers Robert got her are more interesting that her sons gaunt face. "If you don’t want to be part of this family, then don’t be. But I will _not_ have your childish antics ruining our Christmas Day."

Claudia watches her sons face. It’s a mix of hurt and accepting. His jaw is hard. Emotions badly masked, as if he is trying to contain himself.

"Go to your room," Claudia says, before turning back to Robert and Derek, who had stopped their conversation when Stiles had walked in. The fifteen year old boy leaves without another word, running up the stairs.

Claudia isn’t going to let Stiles spoil things anymore. If he doesn’t want to be part of their family, then he doesn’t have to be. But, Claudia isn’t going to drop Robert and his kids because of him. She is going to be a good, supportive mother to them, just like she would if Stiles wasn’t so difficult.

*****

Theo’s hands are on his hips, lifting him up so Stiles can wrap his legs around his waist. Their lips never disconnect from each other, whether it be lip to lip, or Stiles planting hungry kisses on the older boys face and neck, tracing his jawline, biting the lob of his ear. The scent and taste of Theo is driving him mad, the warm skin brushes under his palms as Stiles roams his body, hands feather-touching every muscle and curve. All the coherent thoughts in his mind dissipate, evaporating from his mind in an instant.

Theo is walking, his lips sucking on Stiles’ neck as the younger boy throws his head back and breaths heavily. Suddenly, he’s dropped, landing and bouncing on the soft bed with a yelp. Theo smiles, leaning down and moves across Stiles, inch by inch, like a wave as he crawls from his legs to his face. With every moment, his breath becomes shallower. He feels overwhelmed with the want he has for Theo that he feels like he can barley function. He gazes down at him, eyes blown and sparkling. Then they close, and he’s leaning down to kiss the younger boy, slow and tender. Theo lets his weight go, just enough so he is leaning on Stiles, and a deliciously powerful lust shoots through Stiles like a shot of rocket fuel. They kiss, Stiles’ fingers carding through Theo’s thick, light brown hair until he’s giddy with want, with need. He needs Theo. Right now. He needs his hot tough against his skin, the feeling of his lips sucking on his neck again, the feeling of his hard muscles pressing against Stiles’ smaller frame. The moment is barely catching up with him, his mind a foggy mess that he can’t comprehend to organise.

"T-Theo," he pants, and Theo raises his head, detaching his lips from Stiles’ collar bone. "I. . . I need. . ."

Theo just smiles.

*****

An hour and a half later, Theo is laying on his back. Sweat glazes his skin, a red flush glowing his cheeks. His blood is buzzed, heartbeat dancing with the aftermath of what they’ve gone. He aches with fatigue, but not int he way he knows Stiles is going to.

The younger boy is pressed against his side, head resting on his chest, breathing light and even. Theo runs his fingers through Stiles’ sweaty, matted hair. It stands up on end, making the boy look on another level of both adorable and sexy, a level Theo is sure no one else could master like does Stiles.

Theo hasn’t had sex in a long time. It had been exciting, hungry and passionate. Theo felt like he was drugged with ecstasy. And considering it was Stiles’ first time, the boy lasted a surprisingly long time.

They had a moment when Theo went to take Stiles’ hoodie off. An insecure facade that had Theo wanting to yell at the boy and bundle him in blankets at the same time. The boy in front of him looked so broken, so hateful of himself. Theo had called him beautiful, because he is. He kissed the scars covering Stiles’ arms, brushing his warm hands over the prominent rib bones that jut out a scary amount. He’d traced kisses along the milky white skin, connecting the moles that are scattered across the surface like star constellations.

Now, Theo traces his fingers over the scars of Stiles’ upturned arm. The wrist is exposed, red and white scars contracting with the practically colourless skin and stark blue veins. Stiles shifts in his sleep as Theo makes his way up the skinny arm, feeling the jagged skin under the smooth pad of his finger.

Stiles’ head moves on his chest. Theo looks into the sleep eyes that stare back a him, the whiskey swirls that an hour ago had been blown wide with slumber, and are now puffy with sleep.

Stiles smiles, shifting his arms under him and pushing up, crawling up Theo’s torso. He plants a soft kiss on Theo’s lips, and the older boy responds immediately. Kissing Stiles is like a whole new kind of high. Their lips move in time, their breaths mingling to create the perfect drug. Theo’s tongue covers every inch of Stiles’ mouth, tracing it and exploring it. The taste of Stiles still lingers on his lips, mixing with his sweet kisses.

They pull back for air, breathing heavy. Stiles’ eyes are shut, his forehead resting against Theo’s.

Stiles pulls back even further, the sleep wiped from his face now.

He grins softly, "Best Boxing Day ever."

 

_— tbc._


	7. typical me

****Theo doesn’t know what is happening. The pub is dimly lit, the sway of dancing bodies are blocking all of his view as he searches. The flickering flashes of the lights are making his eyes sting, a headache forming at the front do his skull, pulsing in time with the bass pounding through the speakers.

He didn’t mean for this to happen. He didn’t mean for anyone - especially Stiles - to get hurt. He just wanted to go to a party, to get drunk, and get back in bed with Stiles, to feel the smoothness of his skin and pants of his breath. He wanted to do something actual teenagers do. They’ve only been here an hour, they’ve danced and they’ve drank. They had a good time. Theo had Stiles laughing, giddy with the soft buzz of alcohol in his system. They danced like soulmates, bodies moving together in the mist of the crowd.

He dives into the crowd, pushing through people. He has to find Stiles. He has to find him.

He should have never bought Stiles here. This party is full of kids from his school - a senior had hired out the pub for a night. No one here knows Stiles, and Stiles knows no one apart from Theo. Worry holds him in it’s icy grips; the kids he goes to school with are brutal, and he’s worried someone is going to take advantage of his younger boy.

Theo escapes the crowd, gulping the stale air that is dense and hot.

It’s the evening after Boxing Day, and it’s been the best 36 hours of Stiles’ life. The younger boy came over Boxing morning, and ever since they have spent every moment in Theo’s bed, wrapped in each others arms and the cool, thin sheets. They watched movies, made out, smoked cigarettes. It had been perfect. Stiles had bought him the _Friends_ boxset for Christmas, and the present and thought made Theo feel something new and fresh and incredible. He bought Stiles a bunch of hardback books, classics and books people have recommended to Theo. Theo doesn’t read, he doesn’t enjoy it, but he’s climbed through Stiles’ window more than once to find the teen on his bed reading a beaten-up paperback.

Theo spots Tracy by the bar and heads over to her.

"Tracy, have you seen Stiles?"

The brunette looks at him from where she’s talking to another girl, one Theo doesn’t recognise, "That little boy you came in with?"

"Yes, him," Theo bristles. "Have you seen him?"

Tracy sips her drink through a thin, black straw. "Yeah. I’ve seen him."

Theo can feel his blood heating up with frustration.

"Tracy, stop fucking playing around," he growls. He can barely here his own voice above the music. "Where is he?"

Tracy laughs, "He’s busy. Donovan found him by the backdoor a while ago."

"Donovan?"

Tracy nods, turning back to her friend.

Theo’s heart plummets.

What has he done?

*****

Stiles can’t tell if he’s truly awake or not. His brain feels sluggish and slow. His mouth and ears feel like they’re plugged with cotton. Everything is numb and floating. He can’t remember where he is. The ground beneath him is soft and squishy, unsteady under him. He can’t remember what happened, and a sense of panic burns through his veins. He tries to move, but pain flares in his hips and his—

Everything suddenly comes into focus like an adjusted camera. His mind is suddenly sharp, the cotton is removed from his ears and he can hear the music nearby. He remembers the party, he remembers coming with Theo. He remembers dancing, laughing. He remembers losing Theo when the older boy went to get them drinks of the bar. He remembers feeling he couldn’t breath, the endless feeling of bodies pressing up against him made him feel like he was suffocating. He remembers stumbling away from the dance floor, heading towards the backdoor. He remembers tripping on something, feet so uncoordinated that he would have face planted had someone not caught him. Someone caught him, their hands holding him by the waist. He remembers them offering him a drink, he doesn’t know why he drank it. His throat hurts, maybe that’s why. He remembers feeling light and heavy at the same time, his head spinning, overcome with tsunami waves of dizziness. He remembers stumbling away down a hall, hands on his waist, vision un-focusing with every step. He remember his body feeling heavier by the second, unable to stop it, as he was lead up some stairs and down a narrow, dark hallway inside the pub. He remembers being ushered into a room, pushed on a bed, hands pulling off his clothes—

Stiles’ eyes snap open. The world spins, his head pounds, an un-ignorable throbbing behind his eyes. He ignores it. He’s in a bed, laying on his side. When he shifts, pain explodes in his backside, he can’t help but let out a cry of agony. The bed sheet on top of him brushes against his skin, and it’s then he realises that he’s _naked_. His breath comes short, his heart racing with panic. He moves to sit up, but an arm snakes around his small waist. He freezes, breath hitched in his throat, and then he jerks away, ignoring the burning flares of pain as he scrambles out of the bed. He stumbles, legs like jelly and unsteady underneath him. He barely manages to catch himself on the bedside cabinet before he drops to the floor, crashing on his hands and knees. He’s scrambles around in the dark for his clothes. He needs to get out. He needs to—

The bed behind him moans and groans when the body on top of it shifts.

Stiles freezes like a deer in headlights, his hand clasped around the familiar feeling of his shirt he was wearing earlier. When he’s sure whoever is on the bed is still unconscious, he proceeds to find more clothes. He finds his white top, the shirt he wore over the top and his trousers. Pulling them on his harder than he ever remembers it being, even when he’s been high, it’s never been this hard. His eyes keep hurting as the dark world spins, his hands and fingers shaking so hard that he can barely do up the button on his jeans.

A lamp turns on, flooding the room with light.

"Leaving so soon?"

Stiles jumps, a scream tearing from him. Dressed in a pair of jeans and his button-up shirt, he trips, falling hard on his already sore rear-end. The pain must be evident on his face, because the guy on the bed laughs.

"Sorry about that," he says, voice husky. It sends shivers down Stiles’ already trembling spine. "That’s gonna hurt for a while. You’re such so good in bed. Ask Theo if you want another round and he’ll give me a call."

Stiles wants to throw up. His entire body is shaking, with fear, pain or panic, he doesn’t know which. Maybe all three. A combination of emotions that do not mix well.

His mind is screaming. _Getoutgetoutgetout_.

He gets to his feet, movements slow and delayed, and practically falls out the door and into a narrow hallway. He almost collides face first into the wall, but catches himself at the last moment. He has no shoes on, but managed to slide on some socks before he ran. He runs down the dark hallway, a light at the end he heads towards. He finds himself at the top of a set of stairs, and doesn’t hesitate to stumble down them. He loses his footing on the last few steps, but is caught by another guy coming up the stairs.

"Slow down, kiddo," he says. "Hey, are you okay?"

Stiles is pushing himself away before the guy finishes. He shakes his head, finally getting his feet properly underneath him before he can fall again. He follows the sound of the music, hoping it will lead him back to the main part of the pub and he can run away before anything else happens.

He pushes through a heavy metal door, rusty and covered in peeling stickers and out-of-date posters, and finds himself back in the club. The thrumming bass of the remix that plays sobers him up enough. The flashing lights, however, only escalate the headache to an almost unbearable throbbing. He feels the sour taste of stomach acid crawling up the back of his throat, but he swallows it down. He needs to get out, _now_. His legs ache, everything aches, but it doesn’t stop him from pushing through the swaying crowd of intoxicated dancers in the need for an exit.

The atmosphere makes him feel nauseous. He doesn’t remember drinking that much, but whatever is in his stomach is stirring up like a boiling stew, bubbling and rolling like waves.

He is almost at the door when someone is suddenly standing in front of him, blocking his path and hands on his shoulders.

"Stiles!"

It’s Theo.

A boiling rage burns through him, sharp and hot. He looks at the older boy in front of him, face masked with concern when secretly, he’s probably laughing inside at how pathetic Stiles is, how he’s been played and used. Theo is looking at him, eyes tracking over his face.

 _Ask Theo if you want another round and he’ll give me a call_.

Stiles raises his fist, punching Theo hard enough that the boys head whips back with the momentum. Pain burns in his knuckles, but he doesn’t care. It is masked by the rage and embarrassment eating him from the inside.

"Stay the f-fuck away from m-me!" Stiles screams, though it is barely audible against the blasting music. He makes a move to go around Theo, shaking off his hands. He can see his rucksack by the door - the one that holds his cigarettes and booze. Him and Theo were planning to go to the beach after the party, to lay under the stars, listening to the waves and chain-smoke. There’s no way Stiles is doing that now.

"Stiles—" Theo grabs his shoulder. His nose is bloody, strings of red dribbling down his chin and lips.

"No!" Stiles shrieks, "N-never come near me again! I h-hate you!"

And then he’s stumbling away, leaving Theo behind. He grabs his bag when he makes it to the door, ignoring the yells from people in the door way as he pushes through and bursts out the threshold, racing down the street. He can hear Theo’s calls behind him, yelling his name, but Stiles doesn’t dare to stop, doesn’t dare to look behind him.

Stiles doesn’t stop running, stumbling. His legs are like jelly underneath him, heavy and sluggish. His movements send spikes of pain through him, a deep ache that makes him want to scream. He can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe what _has_ happened. His heart is racing, breath short and not just from the exertion of running.

He doesn’t know how long he’s running for. He doesn’t know how long it is until the ground under his feet morphs from pavement to forestry, but when he finally stumbles to a stop, he finds himself in the middle of the dark woods. He doesn’t realise he is crying until an ugly, loud sob tears from his throat. He cries, and cries, and cries, until there is nothing left in him. His eyes are red, sore and raw. His cheeks are wet, tracks covering his face. He drops to the forest floor, shaking his bag off his back, before he cries some more. His crying escalates, his breath disappearing from his lungs before he falls head first into the abyss of a panic attack. He can feel the bile rising up his throat again, and with his shallow breaths, he can’t stop himself. He lists to the side and the vile taste of of vomit stings his mouth and throat. Alcohol is far more unpleasant coming back up, and Stiles, being his stupid normal self, didn’t eat before the party. It’s pure alcohol and stomach acid that comes back up. He spends what feels like hours sitting there, chest spasming and dry-wrenching.

How could he be so stupid? How could he let himself get so dragged in and blinded by a boy to the point of _this_ happening? Theo has played him, from the very beginning. The comfort and the drugs and the sweet words have all be an act, all a huge, menacing game. Stiles had been so sure Theo was a good person, so sure he was true, and wonderful and kind. He was so sure Theo cared, but all he is is another asshole that’s been made to make Stiles’ life a living hell.

 _No wonder your mother hates you_. The voices are so loud in his head. _Imagine what she’s going to think of you now? You’re a worthless piece of shit!_

Two words ring in his head. So loud it feels like they’re splitting his skull open. _Kill yourself._

Stiles feels shaky and stupid. He feels so worthless, like such a piece of trash. He’s been raped. He’s been fucking drugged and _raped_ and the whole time, Theo was in the same building, probably chatting up someone else while Stiles’ life was being torn apart.

Stiles reaches into his rucksack with a shaky hand, feeling for his cigarettes. He needs something to stop the shaking in his hands, to quiet the raging voices in his head.

Soon, he’s frustrated. His hands scrambling around in his bag with no purchase. A frustrated, caged scream rips through his throat and he tips all the bags contents onto the forest floor. He can barely see in the night-time darkness, but the white moon shines above him, and it’s enough to catch the shimmer of a bottle. He picks it up as well as the packet of cigarettes. He stands up, unscrews the cap and throws back a large swig. The whiskey burns his throat, but it’s a burn he needs. He lights a cigarette and walks further into the woods.

The voice don’t stop.

*****

Clubbing really isn’t Derek’s thing. He’d been in the neighbouring town with Jackson and Danny, because Beacon Hills doesn’t really have any clubs, and was somehow persuaded by the latter to go to a gay club. Derek didn’t even finish his first drink before He left, claiming he wasn’t feeling well. Jackson had looked at him with a face of betrayal, but Danny was already off his head and saying he was going to find a guy to get a lap dance.

So here Derek is, driving back home on the dark roads alongside the Preserve. He has this feeling in his chest, and he knows it’s not from the sips of alcohol he took. This Christmas has sucked. The house has been full of tension, even when Stiles hasn’t been home. It’s wasn’t the firs Christmas without his mother, but it was the first one with Claudia and her son. Derek was spoilt more than normal this year, and he knows his father apologises through money.

He turns the radio up, turning the corner and shifting the gears to accelerate down the next long stretch of road—

He slams on the breaks, jerking the steering wheel to the side. The sound of screeching tyres break out as he narrowly misses wrapping his car around a tree like a pretzel. The car skids over the damp tarmac road, before the car slows. He’s done a whole 180 turn, and he can see the body in the road he had braked to avoid. He sits there for a few moments, trying to catch his stolen breath. His knuckles are white from the grip he’s maintaining on the string wheel. He can feel his heart racing, blood pumping with adrenaline from almost crashing his car and whoever is _stupidly_ laying in the middle of the road.

Anger fuels him. He swings his drivers door open and climbs out of the car. When he rounds the bonnet, he wants to be surprised that the lump is still there, simply laying silently on the damp, cold road floor.

The clouds that blocked the moon move, allowing the light to break out. The road lights up, a white glow revealing the lump in the road to confirm Derek’s assumptions - a body. Beside them, Derek sees a white packet and a glass bottle.

Derek is swarmed with dread that the person is dead. Did he hit them with his car?

No— he would have felt the impact on his car. The person doesn’t look injured. If he’s dead, then he was dead before Derek found him.

Derek was forward slowly, approaching them like a cornered animal. As he gets closer, the features of the boy becomes clearer, and he instantly recognises the brown hair and hollow cheekbones.

"Stiles?"

Derek sees the teen peel his eyes open slowly. Half lidded, he drags out a loud sigh.

"Unfortunately."

"What the hell are you doing in the road?" Derek sputters, hands curled into fists. "I could have hit you!"

"That’s the point, dumbass," Stiles’ voice rasps, "It’s called suicide."

"Suici— what the fuck?" Derek see’s red. "If I had hit you, I would be going to jail for manslaughter!" Derek knows he’s shouting, but he’s furious. He’s also panicking. How the hell is he meant to deal with a suicidal Stiles?

He watches Stiles close his eyes. "That’s a shame."

"Get up," Derek says, walking forward. Stiles doesn’t move, his eyes remain closed. "Stiles, _get up_."

"Leave me alone."

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?"

Stiles opens his eyes, staring above him into the empty sky. "Everything."

The younger teen is actually _disappointed_ in Derek’s fast reflexes. He must have assumed laying just after a sharp bend would confirm what he wants to happen, that no one would see him until it’s too late.

A visible shiver runs down Stiles’ spine. The action is obvious, and Derek only just realises how cold it has gotten. The bitter December air is dropping rapidly in temperature, and while Derek is dressed in a leather jacket and decent jeans, Stiles has nothing on but a buttoned-up shirt and a pair of skinny jeans that do nothing to hide the unhealthy thinness of his legs.

The kid doesn’t even have shoes on.

"Come on," Derek says. "We need to get you home before you get fucking hypothermia."

Derek is standing above Stiles now, looking down on the gaunt child, who’s skin looks literally _white_ in the natural light of the moon. He reaches down, not waiting for Stiles to comply before he’s pulling the teen to his feet.

"No!" Stiles shouts abruptly, jumping out of Derek’s hold. He stumbles on his feet, pushing Derek away.

Derek’s hands fly up in an automatic surrender.

"L-leave me alone," Stiles’ voice cracks, tone losing it’s aggressiveness. He bends down, reaching for the bottle and grabbing it around the neck. Derek is hit with the strong smell of whiskey as Stiles raises the bottle to his lips and takes a large gulp. When he lowers it, he says, "I don’t want to go home."

"Why?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" Stiles snaps. "I don’t want to do it anymore."

Derek takes a step towards the teen, "Do what, Stiles?"

Stiles stumbles back on shaking legs, creating a bigger distance between them.

"Live," he says. "I don’t want to live. I don’t want to wake up everyday, and be reminded of how much of a fuck-up I am. I don’t want to keep seeing the disappointed look in my mums eyes. I don’t want people to look at me with pity and say, 'oh, poor boy. His dad died recently, that’s why he’s acting out. It’s just a phase'. Well, guess what! It’s not a fucking phase! I smoked long before my dad died. You know why? To stop my hands from shaking, to stop that little voice in the back of my head telling me how worthless I am. I’m tired of getting my feelings twisted. I’m tired of falling too fucking hard for the people who don’t give a shit. I’m fucking tired, Derek. Tired of every little damn thing. I just. . . I just want everything to stop. I just want to go to sleep, and for everything to _fucking_ _stop!_ "

Stiles is crying. His shoulders tremble, as do his unstable legs. He sways, legs shooting out at the last moment to steady himself.

Derek is lost for words. He doesn’t know how to comfort Stiles in a way that won’t sound patronising. He doesn’t know how to explain to Stiles that is isn’t a fuck-up.

"You don’t mean that, Stiles," Derek says.

Something in the boy seems to snap. His crying stops and a bitter, cold, sharp laugh escapes him. He throws his head back, looking up into the sky.

"You don’t know shit about me, Derek," Stiles lowers his head then, staring Derek right in the eye. In the low light, his eyes look completely black. "You don’t get to tell me what I mean or don’t mean. You don’t understand, because you have had everything handed to you on a fucking silver plater. You get everything you want, and you don’t even have to bat a fucking eyelash!"

"What do you—"

"Oh, little precious, Derek. He’s so perfect! Never steps out of line, never gets into any trouble, doesn’t do drugs or drink. Never had his heartbroken. Never been played because everyone fucking loves Derek Hale! Hey, why doesn’t everyone be like Derek fucking Hale?" Stiles mocks in an attempted female voice. He moves his hands around, flailing as he speaks, the liquid in the bottle sloshing.

"Stop that," Derek snaps, "You know no one thinks that."

"Oh, _everyone_ thinks that!" Stiles sneers. He takes another couple of drinks, his face screwing up at the taste of the bitter alcohol. "You know, I was going to overdose." Derek feels his breath get lodged in his throat. "But there was too much of a chance of someone finding me before the drugs could work like last time. So, I assumed getting hit by a car would do the job nicely, but looks like I can’t even commit right!"

Stiles shouts the last few words. He swings his arm, launching the bottle to a near by tree. The glass shatters at the impact, bouncing off the alcohol stained tree bark.

Derek is staring tat the broken gland, and he barely notices Stiles falling. The boys legs give out and he collapses harshly to his knees on the tarmac.

"Stiles!" Derek yells, running towards the boy.

Stiles releases a broken sob, tears streaming down his face. His body is trembling, shoulders shaking, and Derek doesn’t know if it’s due to the cold winter evening or the crying. Either way, the older boy removes his jacket and wraps it rained the the sickly thin shoulders. Stiles uses a shaky hand to tighten the jacket around himself, shifting his legs so his knees are folded up against his chest. Derek crouches down beside the younger teen, pulling him into his side in a half-hearted attempt of a hug. The action only makes Stiles cry harder, and Derek is scared the boy is going to have another panic attack. The very thought makes Derek’s skin tingle with anxiety, because after witnessing the one at school, he isn’t in any plans to encounter another one.

Luckily, the panic attack doesn’t happen. The cries slowly die down into sobs, which too eventually stop swell. Stiles is leaning his entire weight - which isn’t a lot - into Derek’s side as he loses consciousness and sleep takes him under. Derek waits a few moments, checking the boy is actually sleeping, before he scoops the younger teen into his arms.

Derek walks back to the car, taking note of how light Stiles truly is, and reminds himself that make sure the teen actually eats something when he wakes up. He places Stiles in the passenger seat, tucking the jacket tighter around his frame. Stiles is still shaking, swamped in the leather, and Derek is now sure it’s due to the cold. The boys skin is freezing when Derek touches it with the back of his palm. He buckles Stiles in before making his way around to the drivers side, and continues the journey home.

He turns the radio down, so quiet it’s barely audible. He feels shaken, empty, like his insides have been scooped out and splattered on the road.

Somewhere down the never ending dark road, Derek turns to see Stiles staring straight back at him with heavy eyelids.

The older teen then notices the dilated pupils, and asks, "Are you high?"

Stiles is silent for a few minutes. He ignores Derek’s question, and says in a tired voice, "You were meant to leave me."

Derek looks back at the road, not wanting to look into the sunken eyes of the younger boy. _Brother_ , his mind supplies. He’s starting to accept it now. Stiles is practically his brother, as much as the boy annoys him and purposely winds up their parents. They might not be related by blood, and they never will be, but they’re a family. Families look after each other, which is what Stiles needs right now.

"I would never leave you," Derek says, and after a few moments, he grows the courage to add, "You’re family now."

A few minutes of silence follow, and Derek is sure Stiles has fallen asleep again. He looks to check, and finds Stiles still looking at him, eyes still hazy and half lidded, but there is something on his face. An expression Derek hasn’t encountered yet. It looks warm, and soft, but also shocked and disbelieving.

Derek returns his gaze back to the road. The journey continues in silence for another ten minutes before Derek pulls the car up to the empty house.

Stiles is asleep again, head leaning against the cool window.

Derek sighs as he gets out of the car. He’s thankful Claudia and Robert are away, as they are the two people he doesn’t want to meet, and one less obstacle to face in explaining why Stiles has passed out. Derek realises then that that is probably why he hasn’t got a message from his father telling him to look for Stiles - the boys mother isn’t even home to notice his disappearance.

There is, however, a light on inside the house, which means Cora is home. Derek ignores the twist of dread in his stomach at the thought of explaining this to his younger sister, and instead opens the passenger door. Derek slides his arms under Stiles, one under his knees and the other around his back, lifting the teen out of the car. He grimaces when his hand rubs over the prominent ribs that jut out so harshly underneath the skin they can be felt even through the leather jacket.

Inside, Derek tries to be as quiet as possible in the task of getting Stiles up to his room unnoticed. Of course, such a thing is a struggle when you live with Cora, as the girl appears in the kitchen archway the moment the front door closes. At least Derek never has to worry about burglars going unnoticed if his sister is home.

"Derek, where—" She breaks off, eyes widening, "What the? Is that Stiles?"

"Yes, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t wake him up," Derek tuts at his sisters loud screech, and walks towards the stairs.

Cora walks further into the main room. "What the hell happened?"

"Nothing," Derek says. It’s probably best _not_ to mention Stiles’ suicide attempt to her. "Just go to bed."

Derek walks straight past Cora, ignoring his sisters pestering questions. He continues up the stairs and onto the landing, down the hall and into Stiles’ bedroom.

The boys room, unfortunately, is cold. The teen hasn’t been home since Boxing morning, and with his bedroom door shut, all the natural warmth of the house and kept his bedroom cold. Derek places the teen on his bed, laying him on his side, because Derek can smell the scent of vomit stuck to the teen, and he doesn’t want the younger boy choking on his own vomit in the night. Derek turns, intending to go and grab some more blankets, but he’s stopped short when he finds Cora standing in the doorway.

"What happened, Derek?" She asks again, her voice solid.

"I’ll tell you later," Derek sighs. He nods down the hall, "Do something helpful and grab me some blankets," he turns back towards Stiles, but doesn’t miss his sisters stony expression. He looks back at her and adds, in an exasperated, tired tone, "Please?"

Derek is more than thankful when his sister finally turns, disappearing down the hall and into the Den to get what he asked for. Derek moves back to Stiles’ side, eyes racking over the sleeping teens white face, bruised eyes and hollow cheeks. He looks rough, rougher than he has in months.

Cora returns shortly with an armful of blankets.

"You better explain this," he says, as she hands them to her older brother.

"I will," Derek replies, taking the blankets, "but not tonight."

Cora nods, though she still looks like she wants to ask more, to pester her brother with questions. Her nosy traits can wait.

Derek takes the blankets and wraps the sleeping teen in one of them. He places the comforter over his sleeping body, tucking him in before laying another blanket on top. Derek doesn’t want to overheat the boy, so he leaves the rest at the side of his bed incase he needs them during the night.

Stiles has slept on unaffected, but when Derek brushes the hair back off his clay forehead, the young teen leans into the touch.

Derek looks at the boy who he’s never seen so vulnerable before. Without the snarky, sarcastic remarks and cigarette between his lips, Stiles actually looks his age. He’s only fifteen, Derek reminds himself. Derek feels of him, being so young, yet so willing to die. He has so much life ahead of him, yet all he’s trying to do is look for a way out.

Derek doesn’t go back to his own bedroom for a while after that. He sits by the boy, crouched next to his bed until his legs cramp, running a hand through his hair - a gesture his own mother would do to Derek whether he was ill or sad. He remembers how Lydia did it to the younger teen after he’d passed out from his panic attack in the locker room, and Derek realises then that Stiles needs some more motherly actions, something warm and comforting, and Derek isn’t ashamed to give it to the boy. Stiles leans into the warm touch of his hand that runs over his unhealthily cold skin, showing Derek how truly touch-starved the younger youth is.

Derek has noticed the subtle changes in Stiles’ appearance lately. For the last couple of months, Stiles has seemed to be spending minimal time at home, and is out for almost every weekend. Every morning, the teen was picked up in a black SUV, driven by a boy who doesn’t look any older than Derek. Derek would be lying if he said that doesn’t know about Stiles’ secret relationship with the older teen; the one who skips school with him and house loans him at the weekends. Derek hasn’t mentioned it to anyone, though, and it is anyones problem to deal with, it’s Claudia’s.

But, in the months that Stiles has been hanging out with this anonymous boy, Derek has noticed the bags under Stiles’ eyes receding, the skin that stretches so harshly over the bones has loosened slightly in some sort of healthy weight gain - although, Derek is still sure Stiles is border lining hospital condition because, seriously, does this kid even eat? Stiles has seemed a lot happier too, more like an actual normal fifteen year old instead of this trouble maker he makes himself out to be.

Derek has seen Stiles walk around Beacon Hills High School with Lydia Martin and Scott McCall. The two teens who have seemed to have taken Stiles under his wing when the boy started high school a year earlier than he was meant to. For someone so apparently smart, Stiles sure as hell has made a lot of mistakes, or so Derek has been told. He remembers keeping a close eye on the too skinny teen with the long limbs and bruised eyes. He remembers listening to Jackson rant about how the 'little shit' was trying to steal Lydia away from him. He remembers listening to the rumours that went around about the 'depressed teen' who smokes like a chimney and doesn’t eat. Derek hadn’t believed any of them - they were rumours after all, but after living with Stiles, after seeing this other side of the teen, Derek has realised all the rumours were true. Stiles is depressed. He does smoke. And not once, has Derek seen Stiles smiles or laugh inside the house - or at least, not forced. He’s like a aura of pain and suffering, a dark cloud following him around.

Derek isn’t sure what’s happened tonight, or what had wiled Stiles to lay in the middle of the road with suicide on his mind. But, whatever did happen, Derek is sure it isn’t going to heal over night. He is also sure, that the anonymous brunette has something to do with this whole mess.

An overwhelming sense of protectiveness flourishes over Derek and he takes another glance at the sleeping teen before him. Derek knows, from what he’s been told or heard, that Stiles hasn’t always been trouble. This whole fiasco, though apparently existed before, was worsened by his father’s death. Quite frankly, Derek believes the kid has every right to act out of line. The reports regarding Sheriff John Stilinski’s death underline that Stiles, his fifteen year old son, had actually witnessed it all with his own eyes. So, surely the young teen has every right to be angry, to be hurt, and to be grieving. The mark of John’s death had only happened weeks before Claudia had shipped them both into the Hale house, and in those weeks, a drastic change had happened to the boy. The weight of the fathers death has so evidently taken a toll of the young boy, and his mother doesn’t seem to have a considering bone in her body to notice.

Derek doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to fix this, but he sure as hell isn’t going to sit around anymore and watch the boy waste away in front of his very eyes. Family protects each other, and Stiles needs some protecting from this world that has chosen it as it’s apparent own beacon for pain and disaster. He is going to scavenge some intel on that boy who might have hurt his little brother. He is going to find out what happened, and he is going to make it better.

He has to. They’re a family now.

 

_— tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry.


	8. empty vessels

****Stiles doesn’t wake slowly. He doesn’t have a moment of crawling towards the surface of consciousness. Instead, it’s like someone flips a switch; one minute he is in a void of black abyss, dreamless, and then is awake, jerking up with a vile taste of vomit crawling up his throat. He can’t keep it down, stumbling out of what he quickly recognises as his own bed. He has a moment to register where he is, before he is bolting to the bathroom, vomit already threatening to slip through his tightly clamped lips.

He vaguely hears someone saying his name before he crashes through the bathroom door, falling painfully to his knees which crack against the hard bathroom floor. He almost misses the toilet, bile spurring out of his mouth like a turned-on hose. Tears roll down his cheeks, his chest and stomach spasm painfully.

It isn’t until he’s dry heaving, that he is aware of someone rubbing his back, a large hand warmeven through the fabric of his t-shirt. He can feel the fabric sticking to his clammy skin. He flushes the toilet, wiping the back of his mouth with the back of his hand as he leans against the edge of the bathtub. His vision is blurry and his head is spinning, but he can make out the figure in front of him, a look of concern etched onto their face.

"Stiles?" Derek’s voice filters through his ears like an echo in a tunnel. His words bounce around the inside of Stiles’ skull like a tennis ball. He grimaces, the pounding in his head making itself known. The acidic taste is burning the back of his throat. He swallows, feeling the inner lining of his throat grinding together painfully, like sandpaper. He grimaces again.

"Water," he croaks, voice wrecked.

Derek gets up, moving silently out of the room. Stiles leans back against the bath, turning slightly so his head is pressed against the cool porcelain wall tiles. He sighs, feeling the nausea swimming in his stomach slowly die down. He still feels sick, but he’s sure there is nothing left to come up. Stiles looks around. He’s back at the Hale house, in the bathroom. The last thing he remembers is being in Derek’s car, after he—

Derek is in front of him again, a hot hand on his shoulder, rubbing the jutting bone. The action snaps Stiles out of his head, yanking him back into the broken prison of reality. Derek is crouching in front of him, his face contorted with such worry, that makes Stiles both angry and sad.

Stiles takes the water that is handed to him with a shaky, trembling hand. He thinks about how he needs a cigarette, something to stop the shaking, but he’s pretty sure he smoked enough last night that his insides are most likely clogged with smoke. The glass is heavy in his hand, aching his wrist that feels so weak he can barely support it.

"Thank you," Stiles whispers when he finished his water, clumsily putting the glass down on the tiled floor.

"What do. . ." Derek trails off, still looking at Stiles like a wounded puppy. "Do you remember last night?"

Stiles closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He can feel his heart racing in his chest, the panic and anxiety clenching in his chest. He feels like he’s being suffocated.

Stiles remembers. He remembers every moment, every fragment. Of course, it’s just his luck that even after drinking himself into oblivion on _Jack Daniels_ , he can still remember the previous events as clear as day. He remembers the party, he remembers Donovan, he remembers Theo and punching him. He remembers running, drinking, smoking, laying in the middle of the road. He remembers the voices being too loud. He remembers screaming at Derek, feeling so desperate to end it, sinking as low as suicide because Theo has ruined him.

"I remember," Stiles rasps, his voice quiet, afraid. He keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to open them.

"Stiles," he can hear Derek moving in front of him, and when he opens his eyes, Derek is sitting cross-legged in front of him. "What happened last night?"

Stiles shakes his head. "It doesn’t matter."

"Yes, it does," Derek says. His voice is soft yet hard with a sense of seriousness. "Stiles, you tried to commit sui—"

"I know I did!" Stiles bursts. He instantly regrets shouting, his head throbbing from the noise and effort. But he doesn’t stop. He has to get it out, because he is suddenly filled with a foreign rage that sits heavily on his chest. "Don’t you think I know I tried to fucking _kill myself?"_

"You weren’t going to kill yourself, though. You were going to get _someone_ _else_ to kill you," Derek replies, voice low. "You were trying to get _me_ to kill you."

"I didn’t target you specifically," Stiles mumbles. He feels a pang of guilt, realising how much it would have affected whoever hit him, and if they had killed him.

Stiles decides then, that he doesn’t care. He wanted to die, he wanted to end it so badly the night before because he was so sure the shame and pain of what happened was going to consume him completely.

Maybe it still will. The pain in his head is nothing comparable to the ache in his hips and ass.

"It wouldn’t have matter if it was me or someone else!" Derek snaps. "If you’d been killed, the driver would have been convicted for manslaughter—"

"I don’t care! I didn’t. . . I didn’t care," Stiles feels tears prick in his sore eyes. He can only imagine how raw and bloodshot they are. The combination of crying, smoking, drinking and whatever he was given at the pub to make hm pass out when Donovan. . .

He pills his knees up to his chest. He feels a bone deep exhaustion washing through him. His head is pounding in time with his heartbeat, blood roaring in his ears. He puts his forehead on the bony knobs of his knees.

"Stiles," Derek puts his hand on they younger boys shoulder. The touch makes Stiles flinch, but when Derek doesn’t pull away, the touch makes Stiles feel grounded. "You can tell me what happened."

Stiles knows that’s a lie. Why would Derek Hale want to know about Stiles’ issues? The older boy is probably going to tell Jackson and Danny all about it if Stiles tells him. And then, the entire school is going to know that Stiles is a weak, stupid, foolish piece of shit. The words echo in his head.

Stiles can’t even imagine Derek’s reaction if he tells. If Stiles tells him everything that happened the night before, he can’t even bare the thought.

"No," he says. "It doesn’t matter. I just—. . . I’m gonna go to bed—"

"No, you’re not," Derek interrupts. "You’re going to eat something first."

Stiles looks at him, gaping. He opens his mouth to protest, to say that he doesn’t want to eat, that he wants to go to sleep and never wake up, but Derek is already climbing to his feet.

"You’re going to eat something, because I’m pretty sure you’re one more missed meal away fro landing your skinny ass in hospital," Derek says, his hard voice identifying that there is no room for argument. Stiles is too exhausted to fight anyways. The sooner he shoves some food down his throat, the sooner he can sleep. He’ll just have to deal with the weight gain tomorrow.

The world moves when he is suddenly lifted by the armpits, his weightless body rising. The room spins, Stiles’ head feeling like it’s ricocheting so painfully that he can’t help the whimper. He would feel embarrassed if he didn’t feel like his head is going to split open.

"You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten something," Derek says, his voice sounding like it’s a million miles away.

Stiles forces himself to breath deeply, urging the nausea in his stomach to go away. He’s gonna pass out, his head is going to burst.

"Go and get changed," Derek says, "You’re still in your clothes from yesterday."

Stiles hadn’t even realised. The clothes touching his skin makes him inwardly cringe. He wants to shower, to wash the filth that coats his skin. He can feel Theo’s hands on him, can feel his feathered touches. He can feel Donovan’s hands, the bruises and the ache.

"I’m showering first," Stiles rushes to say. He can feel himself trembling, the thoughts of Theo and Donovan threatening to bring on another panic attack.

"Okay," Derek nods, moving out of the bathroom, glancing back at Stiles for a moment. He falters, mouth twitching like he wants to say something, but apparently decides against it. Instead, he grabs some towels from the under-sink cupboard and puts them on the floor next to Stiles.

The moment he closes the door, Stiles feels like he can barely breath.

He’s consumed almost instantly in a sudden panic attack, his breath quickening and erratic. His lungs feel like they’re too small, filling with water, refusing to expand. He scrambles to his feet, legs trembling as he stumbles to the shower. The world spins as he turns the dial and dashes under the cold, icy spray.

He undresses himself with shaking hands, the tight, wet clothing peeling off his skin.

They’ve soaked through by the time he’s calmed down enough to breath, the fabric sticking to him like a second skin. After turning the water warm, he sits down, pulling his knees to his chest and curling in as much as he can. His mind feels like a dirty disease, plaguing him with thoughts and too-loud voices. He can hear Donovan tormenting him, hear Theo laughing. He can hear all the soft, kind words he’s spoken. All the lies.

Stiles sits there, swallowing back the edging panic attack for another ten minutes, before he washes, scrubbing his body so hard he makes his skin raw. He doesn’t get out until the water turns cold.

*****

Derek hears the water turn off in the shower. He’s in the kitchen, just having got off the phone with his father, who announced their return tomorrow. Derek didn’t mention the events of the previous night. He doesn’t think he has any right to tell his father something like that, something that is clearly Stiles’ business.

Derek had just finished making toast when Stiles appears in the kitchen. He’s surprised the young teen even came down - he was expecting to find that Stiles had gone to bed, too deep in his exhausted hangover to eat.

"Claudia and Robert are going to be home tomorrow," Derek says, pushing a plate of buttered toast towards the teen, who sits down with stiff limbs at the breakfast bar, as if in pain. Derek frowns, "You okay?"

"Fine," Stiles mumbles.

Derek doesn’t know what Stiles’ definition of 'fine' is, but the teen definitely is _not_ fine. He looks like he’s been shoved through a fringe. His sickly thin frame is drowning in the over sized, old sweatshirt that looks ten years old, littered with holes in his sleeves. The younger boy looks ill, pale skin clammy despite having just got out of a shower, jewels of sweat bedding on his forehead.

"You gonna tell me what happened last night?" Derek asks, spreading butter on his own toast before sitting down on a stool, opposite the younger boy.

"Don’t worry about it," Stiles sighs, "it’s over now."

He runs his hand through his hair, making the wet strands stand on end in black, thin spikes.

"You’ll feel better if you walk about it," Derek says, tasking bite of his golden-brown snack.

Stiles looks at him coldly. "What are you, a therapist?"

Derek resists to snap at the hit Stiles took at him. The teen is obviously toying with him, trying to make him snap.

"No," Derek replies slowly, calmly. "But, it’s true: you would feel better if you—"

"No, I wouldn’t," Stiles says. "I don’t want to tell you anything."

Derek is about to say something, to open his mouth, just moments before Cora bounces into his kitchen. The girl instantly seems to realise she’s interrupted something, after taking in the slumped and tense shoulders of the smaller boy that she’d seen be carried in unconscious the night before.

Derek wants to tell Cora to leave, to tell her that he was trying to get Stiles to open up, but quickly figures it will be futile. Stiles had closed up long before Derek even began the conversation.

"I’m going to bed," Derek says, standing up from his chair and exiting the room before Derek has a chance to stop him. The untouched toast has shrivelled up as the heat has been lost, sitting depressingly abandoned on the plate.

"What was that about?" Cora asks.

"What do you think?" Derek replies, voice riddled with more heat than he intended. He stands up, dumping his empty plate into the washing up bowl, echoing a loud clang through the kitchen.

"Was it about last night?"

Derek nods, leaning over the sink. "Kind of."

"What _did_ happen last night?"

"Don’t worry," Derek sighs, rubbing his eyes. He too wants to go back to bed. He didn’t sleep well, too wired with worry about the teen in the room beside him. He spent all night imagining Stiles vomiting on his own vomit, unable to fall asleep. The Christmas break only has just over a week left, which leaves Derek with eight days to train for the upcoming basketball season. And if he is going to be spending the next week keeping the younger boy from damaging himself as well as practicing, then Derek is going to need some goodnights sleep.

Derek turns, intending to leave, when a small hand grasps his forearm. Cora spins him around, making his face her and her fury.

"Derek, do not tell me not to worry, okay? You carried the kid in your damn arms! He was _unconscious_ and you actually helped him—"

"What did you think I would have done? Left him there? Left him out there passed out?"

"Why was he passed out, Derek?" Cora stresses, "Why can’t you tell me? What happened last night?!"

Derek forces himself to take a deep breath. "Why do you even want to know?"

"Because, I was worried!" Cora shouts, throwing her hands up.

Derek blinks. "What?"

"What? Do you seriously think I’m _that_ insensitive?" Cora rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. "I thought you hated him- I thought we all did, and then—"

"I don’t hate him."

Cora looks at her brother with a lost expression. It’s the first time he’s ever seen her so confused, so torn.

"I know that now," she says. "I don’t hate him either. I just. . . he annoys me."

Derek scoffs, rolling his eyes. He leans back against the breakfast bar, watching his sister shift from foot to foot.

"So," she presses, "what happened?"

Derek runs a hand through his hair, sighing. He’s too sleep deprived for this.

"He hasn’t told me anything. I just—" he breaks off, taking a deep breath. "I found him last night laying in the middle of the road. He. . . he said he wanted to die. He was trying to commit suicide."

Cora stares at him like he’s grown a second head. "Suicide?" She echoes, the word physically chilling Derek to the bone. "He was. . . trying to kill himself?"

Derek nods. Words are becoming difficult. He’s never dealt, or even known, someone who feels so cheated by life that they see no solution other than to end it themselves.

"Wh. . . why?" Cora asks. She sounds breathless, as if the thought of the fifteen year old boy being so mentally broken has crushed the air out of her lungs.

"I don’t know," Derek murmurs, shaking his head. "He won’t tell me."

Cora seems to physically fall into the chair, landing with a heavy huff. She rests her elbow on the worktop, supporting her chin in her palm.

Derek had no idea his sister cared about Stiles. He had no idea _he_ really cared about Stiles until last night, but after seeing the boy in that state, Derek doesn’t know if he’s ever been more scared. He was scared of what Stiles was going to do, what he was saying, how he was feeling. He was scared of what was going to happen.

Cora has always been so hostile towards the younger teen. Ever since him and his mother moved in almost six months ago, Cora hasn’t looked at the kid twice when he walks in a room. Cora has always been slightly self-absorbed, always thought the world has evolved around her. Derek wasn’t surprised when she was cold towards Claudia and Stiles when they moved in. They could have been the kindest people in the world, Cora would have still shut them out.

His younger sister took Talia and Laura leaving the hardest. She’s closest to their mother would of the pair of them, and while Derek is closer to his mother, her leaving with Laura broke something in Cora. It was like something snapped, an outburst of anger fuelling her every word and move. Derek knew Cora felt abandoned by their mother and older sister when they moved out, and that for months Cora didn’t speak to them, consumed in her own anger and hurt. When Cora finally did speak to their mother, Derek knew his mother was crying over the phone.

Derek doesn’t know what has come over them both; two days ago, the pair of them didn’t think twice if Stiles was home or not. But, now, Derek can’t think of anything he wants to do more than chase the boy upstairs, wrap him in blankets and protect him from every danger in the world.

The teenage girl turns to him suddenly, her brown eyes wide, "Do you think. . . ?"

"That that kid he’s been hanging out with did something?" Derek answers for her with a star nod. "Yep."

That only seems to shake Cora further.

"What are we going to do?" She asks, voice small.

"Nothing," Derek says. He pushes off the kitchen counter, walking towards the exit of the kitchen. "Not yet, anyway. We need to wait for Stiles to come to us about this."

"What?" Cora is up on her feet in a flash, the chair she was sitting on falling back from the momentum, crashing against the kitchen floor. "Derek, we have to—"

"We can’t do anything, Cora," Derek sighs. "We don’t know enough."

"Yes, we do. We know that guy—"

"We don’t know for sure," Derek interrupts. "We can’t do anything, not until Stiles tells us. If we do anything now, we could be making it all worse," he breaks off with a sigh, "Just— . . . don’t do anything yet."

Cora nods, but her eyes scream that she doesn’t agree, "Okay. Fine."

*****

The moment Stiles makes it to his room, he slams the door behind him and slides to the floor. He aches, in places he doesn’t even want to think about. His head throbs, his throat is burning, and all he can think about is the pain he is feeling that wouldn’t be here if Derek hadn’t braked the night before.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Theo smiling; twisted, sweet and sinister. He see’s Donovan in the doorway again, leaning too close. He can feel hands on him, lips against his skin, heat around him like a suffocating blanket.

He opens his eyes in the mist of a panic attack. His lungs are trapped in clamps, the air knocked out of them by an invisible force. His eyes blur with tears, throat sore and ruined to the point that he can barely get out a sound. He struggles against the door, wheezing and scratching at his chest like a madman.

It’s the ping of a text that snaps him out of his superior attack. The cloud around him clears with a gust of wind, his vision coming into focus. His lungs expand, breathing in a painful amount all at once, leaving Stiles coughing and hacking.

He gets up on shaky legs, stumbling towards his bed. He snatches his phone off the bedside cabinet, not sure how it got there - did Derek put it there? He doesn’t care as he stares, wide eyed, at the name flashing on the screen.

**_UNREAD MESSAGES_ ** _() - Theo_

**_MISSED CALLS_ ** _(12)_ _\- Theo_

It takes him moment to open his phone, his hands shaking so hard that he can barely support the mobile in his palm.

_Where are you?_

_Are you okay?_

_Stiles, please reply._

_We need to talk. Please, call me back._

_Stiles, are you okay?_

_STILES!_

_Please call me._

_Let me explain. You don’t understand._

His heart is hammer-jacking. The phone tumbles out of his hands, crashing onto the floor with an audible crash. He knows the screen has cracked, but he doesn’t care as he goes tumbling to the floor, crashing to his knees for the second time that day.

Panic attack. This time, he can barely manage to keep himself from passing out. He’s so dizzy, so disorientated when it passes, and if he had anything left in his stomach, he’s sure he would have thrown up.

Then there’s a thought in his mind. It comes with a maddening frenzy of desperation to get rid of the putrid filth that makes him who he is; perhaps what makes him so disgusting and wrong isn’t not his skin, but underneath it.

What if it’s in his blood?

His head is spinning, thoughts a scrambled, racing messy. He ignores the pain he feels when he crawls over to where he hides his blades, his hands shaking when he sticks it between the planks and the mattress. He can barely see what he’s doing, vision so unclear, when he unwraps the cloth that hides it. With a few deep breaths, as his mind begins to doubt, he slides the blade across his wrist and the familiar sensation of the action makes his eyes water.

Normally, Stiles would be worried about the sight of the red droplets dripping onto the wooden floor. The vile liquid will stain the floorboards an unquestionable red, but Stiles is too caught up in the feeling to even think about it.

He needs to be clean, inside and out.

 

Half an hour later, the blood is feebly wiped up, leaving an obvious mark on the expensive wooden floor. Stiles’ arm is cleaned, the additional scars that have been added now wrapped beneath a fresh bandage and hidden by his red sweatshirt.

He’s at his window, sitting on the cushioned sill-seat. He has his knees folded up against his chest, the window wide open, his cigarette smoke drifting out. He looks out over the back garden, the mass expanse of unnecessary space Robert Hale provides greedily for his children. Stiles sometimes envies what Robert gives his kids, but then he thinks about how much Robert has been away on 'business' lately, and it makes Stiles thankful that the longest his father ever was away was when he was on a night shift, and even then, his mother was home.

Stiles isn’t used to Claudia being away so much. It’s strange to come home to an empty house, worse having a house so big and so large, a big void compared to the true Stilinski home.

Stiles misses his mother. He misses the mother he knew years ago, the mother who loved his father, who loved him. He misses when they were a family.

The thoughts bring on an even darker cloud over the suicidal teen. He looks at the white smoke floating away, drifting into the air outside the window. He feels a pang of strange envy: the smoke he’s breathing out is free, floating and unburdened.

Stiles knows he’s finally hit rock bottom when he’s become jealous of fucking cigarette smoke.

 

At eleven that night, after excusing himself from the dinner that Derek had tried to convince him to eat, Stiles grabs the bag Theo gave him, and swallows four piles dry.

Stiles is out within minutes. Passed out, but still dressed in the hoodie and sweatpants he’s worn all day.

 

He jerks awake three hours later, a scream ripping from his throat, feeling like he’s tearing his vocal cords. He’s crying, his body racked with shakes. He barely has the energy to turn over before he’s vomiting, a white, milky substance soaking his bed sheets. His head is pounding, chest heaving and stomach knotting, making him whimper pathetically. He squeezes his eyes shut. Donovan’s voice is echoing in his head, his words repeating like a haunting mantra. He can feel his hands on his hips, the ache in his bones intensifying to the point that it feels like they’re being snapped from the inside.

He scrambles for his phone on his bedside table, his blurry vision and threatening tears making it hard to see the screen. He goes to check the time, because despite knowing he’s slept for a few hours at least, the drugs inducing him into some kind of unconscious rest, he still feels utterly exhausted.

Checking his phone proves to be a mistakes when he see’s the last name he wants to see on his phone.

**_UNREAD MESSAGES_ ** _(4) - Theo._

Just the sight of the name sends Stiles into another panicking turmoil.

He can barely think straight as he stumbles out of bed, not giving a flying _fuck_ about the time, as he makes an unsteady dash for the bathroom. Derek and Cora be damned, he’s showering and he’s showering _now_.

Stiles turns on the water and dives under the spray of water that turns warmer and warmer, until it’s painfully hot. Stiles doesn’t care. He stands there in the shower with his clothes still covering his body. The fabric is becoming increasingly soaked, clinging to him like an uncomfortable second skin. He stands there, sobbing, until he realises how filthy he really is, and with that thought, he sheds his clothes. When finally naked, Stiles starts to scrub the touches and lingering breaths off his body. He scrubs every inch of his skin red and raw. He washes every part of his body - even the places he hasn’t given much attention to before. But no matter how hard Stiles scrubs, and no matter how much he uses his soap, the dirty and ungracefulness that makes Stiles who is can’t, or simply _won’t_ , come off of him.

 

Derek finds Stiles on the back step hours later, the sun only just beginning to rise, midway in the sky. He has a lot cigarette in between his lips. He’s running low again, he’ll need to speak to Greenberg. Maybe he’s smoking them too fast - he doesn’t remember getting through them this fast. Maybe he should slowdown.

His arms are itchy underneath his sweatshirt. He rubs them, feeling the satisfaction of the sting.

He doesn’t hear Derek come into the kitchen.

"You shouldn't smoke so much," the older boy says. "It’s not good for you."

Stiles scoffs, not taking his eyes off the back garden. "Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

"Do you have any idea how ill smoking can make you?"

Stiles shrugs. The action caused the sweater he is wearing to slip of his shoulder, revealing the jutting bone that stuck worryingly beneath the stretched skin. He shucks it back up immediately. "Don't care."

"What if it kills you?"

"Drugs may kill you," Stiles says, and he takes a drag of the cigarette for example, "but they'll never break your heart."

 

Stiles isn’t ready to see his mother the next day.

He’s in his bedroom, sitting against the door and swallowing down a panic attack when he hears the front door open, the sound of his mothers cheery voice echoing through the mansion. He isn’t sure if it’s the shock of his mothers unexpected arrive, or the added panic that his mother is home so soon, but it’s like the original panic that was gripping at his nerves with claws hands lets go. He’s left sitting there, breathless and confused.

The morning, so far, has been awful.

Stiles woke up at three, screaming bloody murder from a nightmare and had to have Derek, of all people, talk him down. After only getting two hours of restless sleep, Stiles had spent the rest of the night curled in ball, tracing the scars on his arms and ignoring the tormenting voices in his head.

And now, to make it all so much worse, his mother has come home just when he’s caught in the mist of panic attack, all caused by a _fucking sweater_.

 _Theo’s_ fucking sweater.

Stiles had mistakenly uncovered it at the back of his draws when he was scrambling for his bags of pills, and the simple piece of innocent clothing had punched the breath out of his lungs, sending him tumbling to the floor.

Stiles manages to quickly gather himself, dragging his thoughts back together with shaking hands, before he exits his room. He can hears his mothers voice like a siren ringing through the hours, high and perky. Stiles almost can’t bare the thought of facing her. He walks down the stairs, finding his mother, Robert and the Hales hugging by the front door, bags dropped around them. The sight goes straight to his chest like a hand has punched through his ribcage and is squeezing his lungs, tightening like a clamp. The air is thick. He can’t stand it. They look like a happy family, gathered and hugging.

Claudia notices him when he makes it to the last step.

"Stiles," she says, sounding breathless, and before Stiles can react, she’s crossing the floor and pulling him into a hug.

Stiles is as stiff as a board. His muscles tense up so fast it’s almost painful. He holds his breath, all he can hear is the blood roaring his his ears. His lungs are still aching from the panic attack and he can feel the soreness of his eyes from the crying. His mother, despite her slim and short frame, feels so big around Stiles. He feels like he’s being suffocated. He can’t even bring himself to hug her bag.

Claudia must be able to tell something is wrong, because she slowly pulls away from him, staying close enough to still touch. Her eyes rake over his face, and he hears the hitch in her breath.

She’s probably feeling the punch of disappointment, Stiles thinks. _When did you become so fucked up?_

He can feel his hands shaking at his sides and instantly, he hides them in his sweater pockets. He cans see, over his mothers shoulder, how Robert is looking at them.

Suddenly, his mothers hands are moving around his head and come to rest on the back on his neck. Her hands are warm against his skin as they rub over the knob of his spine.

She’s frowning, still looking at his in an expression of confusion. "You look sick," she says. "Are you okay?"

She rests the back of her hand against his forehead, but Stiles jerks away in a full-body flinch. His heart is suddenly racing rapidly. His mother touching him had shocked him, a wave of electricity shooting through him. Theo used to do that. He used to rest his hand against his forehead, brushing the hair off his face. He was always touching Stiles, whether it be small or big, light or hard. Theo’s touch was like ecstasy, and Stiles hadn’t been able to get enough of it. But now, when his mother touches his forehead, he feels a pain, deep in the core of his chest. It explodes, like a firework, and it burns his insides.

"Stiles?" His mother asks. Her eyes have grown wide, her mouth slack.

"S-sorry," he stammers. He feels light headed. He can’t hear properly, and his mothers voice sounds far away as if his ears are blocked with cotton wool. "I’m fine," he says. "I just. . ."

"Stiles," Claudia takes a step towards him, trying to close the distance Stiles created, but he just stumbles back. His legs are barely holding him up, knees trembling. His feet almost catch on the bottom step of the stairs.

"I’m fine," he says again, before he’s spinning around, sprinting back up the stairs in a fluster of quick breaths and uncoordinated limbs.

He dashes up to his bedroom, head as light as air and dizzy as he stumbles along the corridor that is too damn long. It takes what feels like forever to get back to the confines of his bedroom.

He falls through the door, slamming it behind him and ignoring the shout that comes from downstairs. Whatever they say doesn’t matter because Stiles can’t breath and black spots are dancing in his vision. He slowly slides down to the floor, his back pressed against the door. He’s trying to swallow down the panic attack thats ebbing at him like a parasite, eating and consuming him slowly, painfully.

He feels a dangerous sense of deja vu.

He doesn’t know why the sight of his mother shoved him into such a pathetic fate of panic, nor does he understand why the simple question of 'are you okay?' has sent him into such a spiralling mess.

He wonders if it’s because he _is_ a mess, because he’s not okay, and instead of people asking him if he is, he just wants someone to figure it out themselves. He wants someone to realise Stiles is a complete and utter time bomb, slowly ticking until he breaks down.

He’s broken out of his head when a knock at the door rasps through.

"Stiles?" His mother asks. "Everything okay?"

Stiles swallows thickly. He wipes away the tears that spill from his eyes. There’s a pounding in his head, the pain being almost the only thing reassuring him that all of this is real.

"I’m fine," he croaks. He’s not ready to tell her. He’s not ready to tell _anyone_ what happened only two nights ago that has sent him regressing so far back into his demons, where his only relief comes from the feeling of a blade or an empty stomach. The shock of his mother on the other side of his door frightens him so much his panic is forgotten, breath still lost, but he presses all of his weight against the door to stop his mother.

"Stiles. . ." his mother says again, trailing off. Before she can open her mouth again, Stiles is snapping.

"I’m fine!" He shouts, and physically grimaces at the roughness of his own voice.

His phone begins to ring on the nightstand, causing him to launch to his feet and scramble for the device. He hates the build up, the moments when he’s diving for his phone, terrified of who it is on the other end because since the day after boxing day, there’s only one person who has been bringing his phone, and that is the one person Stiles can’t bring himself to speak to.

It isn’t Theo, though. Instead, it’s Lydia.

He contemplates not answering. He wants to just let the phone ring, let it end and Lydia listen to his answer machine. But then, Stiles comes to the realisation that is he doesn’t answer, he will be ignoring Lydia, and the strawberry blonde will _never_ let him get away with that. Worse thing she could do is come to the house, which means she will visually see how much of a mess Stiles has become. She’ll instantly be asking questions that Stiles isn’t ready to be lie himself out of.

He swipes the answer button on the last ring, and presses the phone to his ear.

"Hello," he says, and _fuck_ , his voice is still hoarse. Lydia can probably hear the post-panic attack in his tone.

"Stiles," Lydia greets, "About time you answered your phone."

"S-sorry," Stiles stammers the apology, looking back at the door to see it still safely closed. He wonders if his mother has left yet. "Been a little bit distracted."

"Yeah, well, you better start sorting yourself out, Mister," Lydia scolds, "because guess who I just saw at the mall."

Stiles sighs, rubbing his hand down his face. He feels exhausted, a bone deep ache. He isn’t in the mood for this. "I don’t care, Lydia."

"Well, you damn should," Lydia snaps, "because I want to know why Theo _fucking_ Raeken just came up to me and asked if I have seen you recently."

Stiles feels his breath get caught in his throat, and he has to do everything in his conscious power to stop himself from falling back into the wires of a panic attack.

"W-what—. . . what did h-he want?" Stiles stutters. His heart has shot up like it’s on rocket fuel. The hand holding his phone is shaking so hard he can barely keep grip on it. He sinks to the floor, knees weak. He leans against the bed, slowing his breathing before it gets caught in his throat like an animal in a trap.

"He just want to know if I’d seen you, which I _haven’t_ , by the way," Lydia replies. "Since when are you so busy?"

Stiles isn’t sure if he is relieved she isn’t asking so many questions about Theo, or terrified because she might already know the answer.

"Is that—" he cuts himself off, swallowing thickly. His mouth feels so dry. "Is that all he wanted?"

"What did Theo want with you, Stiles?" Lydia asks in a tone that basically translate into _tell me to I’ll_ make _you tell me_. It is undoubtedly terrifying.

"I don’t— I don’t know—" Stiles replies. Blood is rushing to his ears. He almost doesn’t hear Lydia’s reply over the roaring.

"Stiles, are you and Theo a _thing?"_

"No!" Stiles cries. He’s panicking now. He needs to calm himself if he wants to keep this from Lydia. He takes a shuddering breath, swallowing down the bile crawling up his throat.

"Stiles, is everything okay?" Lydia asks. There’s a urgency in her voice.

"I’m fine. Just. . . just a bad day," he says. He runs a sweaty hand through his hair. "Just. . . ignore Theo. Please, whatever he says—"

Lydia sighs, "I’m not playing messenger, Stiles. He just wanted to know if I’d seen you, and asked me if I could tell you to call him."

"Okay," Stiles whispers. "Okay. Fine."

"Are you sure everything’s okay?" Lydia asks, her voice softer. She’s getting to close. "Do you want me to come over?"

"No. I’m fine. I already told you," Stiles rushes to say. He can’t do this anymore. "I gotta go. Bye, Lyds."

"St—"

He cuts her off by hanging up.

He can’t process it. Theo is speaking to Lydia. He has _spoken_ to Lydia. What if she had asked him more? What if Theo had told her something had happened? What if he told her _what_ happened?

The questions bounce around inside his head like a tennis ball in a box. They spin around, echoing and screaming. They torment him. Faces flash; Donovan’s smile, Theo’s laugh, twisted and dark and menacing. He can feel hands on him, touching his skin, their nails scratching him, gripping him and bruising him. He see’s his dad, his face before he died. He see’s the bullet going through his chest.

Stiles reaches for his blade in blind panic.

The blade will make it better.

*****

There is nothing like coming home from an incredible holiday, that makes the swell in Claudia’s chest make itself known. Paris had been beautiful; the people, the sights, the food. The whole thing had been overwhelming, stealing her breath, and by the end, Claudia hadn’t wanted to come home. Robert had even offered to get them another hotel so they could stay longer, but Claudia had known it was time to come home, come back to their kids and their lives in Beacon Hills.

As Robert pulls up in front of the house that Claudia has been calling 'home' for the last five months, she realises that she will never get used to living somewhere so large. Claudia will never admit that sometimes she misses her old home, the smallness and simplicity of it. She misses the cosy warmth that a house so large, her new home, can’t obtain.

But yet, she wouldn’t change it for the world.

Climbing out and running to the door, Claudia feels an excitement in her body that she hasn’t felt since she was young, as if she was coming home from months at college. Coming home brings her a different tingle.

"We’re home!" She shouts, announcing their arrival as soon as she throws the front door open.

Cora, who is laying on the couch, jack-knifes up and stares in shock. "You’re home?"

Claudia nods rapidly, and Robert comes in behind her, resting his hand on the small of her back. "Yes," he says. "We are."

Then, Cora is darting up, running over to them and pulling her father straight in for a hug. Claudia doesn’t even have time to dwell on how she feels about the sight, because Derek is walking out of the kitchen with a mixed look of shock and happiness.

"I didn’t think you were coming back till later," Derek says, smiling from ear to ear. He pulls Claudia into a hug, and when Claudia hugs back, she notices how Derek is clinging to her like a lifeline. If she didn’t know any better, she’d assume something is wrong, especially when Derek whispers brokenly into her ear, "I’m glad you’re home."

Claudia doesn’t get the chance to ask Derek what he means by that, because he’s pulling away and going to his father. The whole moment is warm and special. The atmosphere is clear and welcoming, and Claudia has never felt so welcome somewhere. Italy was incredible, but it wasn’t _home_. However, through all the excitement and the flurry of their holiday, Claudia’s eyes are instantly drawn to the boy standing at the bottom of the stairs.

Something horrid tightens in Claudia’s chest at the sight of her son, pale and gaunt, standing in clothes far too big for his bone-thin body. Her son looks like he’s been put through a wringer and spat back out while she’s been gone.

"Stiles," she forces a smile as she approached the boy she’s loved and raised. She doesn’t hesitate to pull him into a hug.

She can’t remember her and Stiles hugged— hugged _properly_. He’s so much taller now, the same size as her, if not taller. When did he get so tall? Claudia clings to the thin body, trying not to grimace as the bones stick out of her son dig into her painfully. When did he get so thin? Stiles has always been on the slim size. Even when he was a child, he didn’t gain no matter how much he ate. Claudia had assumed he’d grow out of it, or he’d fill out after he has a growth spirt. When she pulls away, because her son doesn’t hug her back, she finally notices everything she’s been blind to.

Stiles is pale, as white as a sheet. His eyes are so bruised with purple half moons they look almost black, sunken like craters. His cheeks are too prominent, hollow and gaunt. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot and red, as if he’s been crying before she got home. She puts a hand on the back of his neck, feeling the clammy, cold skin that’s pulled far too tight over the knobs of his spine.

She frowns, "Are you sick, love?" 

She rests the back of her hand against his forehead, but Stiles jerks away, whole body visibly flinching.

"Stiles?" She asks, shocked. Her son has never acted so suddenly to her touch, not like _that_.

"S-sorry," Stiles stammers, "I’m fine. I just. . ."

"Stiles," Claudia repeats, taking a step towards him, but Stiles just stumbles back.

"I’m fine," he says again. Then he’s spinning around, sprinting back up the stairs in a fluster of quick breaths and uncoordinated limbs.

Claudia is left staring at the top of the stairs, even after Stiles has disappeared down the hall.

"Claudia," someone says behind her. She thinks it’s Derek, but she doesn’t turn around to check. "I need to—"

She isn’t listening, because she’s already running up the stairs. She goes to Stiles’ room, standing in front of the closed door. She can’t hear anything on the other side apart from a faint, shallow breathing.

"Stiles?" She says as she cracks her knuckles against the wood. "Everything okay?"

"I’m fine," she hears her son croak beyond the closed door.

"Stiles. . ." she begins, but trails off helplessly. She doesn’t know what to say, what would make it better. Something’s wrong, but Stiles isn’t going to open up to her.

Before she can open her mouth again, Stiles is shaping through the door, "I’m fine!"

He sounds firmer now— still shaky, though. Claudia is about to open the door when she hears the sound of a phone running on the other side of the wood. She hears scrambling around, and her son answering it.

She walks away from the door.

 

Claudia doesn’t get much sleep on her first night home. She’s overtired from the flight home, probably suffering from jet-lag and her mind won’t shut off. Her thoughts are working overtime and refuses to turn off.

She speaks to Robert that night, asking him if Derek or Cora have told him anything about Stiles. To which, her lover, replied with _no_. Claudia thought about going to the kids themselves and asking if something had happened to her son while she was away, but she quickly decides against it. Roberts children, as lovely as they are, haven’t shown an interest in her son, and would most likely have no clue what has, if anything actually _has_ , happened to him. Claudia still hasn’t ruled out the possibility that Stiles is just being _Stiles_ : a moody, distance teenager. That Stiles is just being a fifteen year old, doing his normal hatred upon the world, and upon Claudia especially.

In the morning, Claudia is surprised to see Stiles sitting on the back step, the door wide open and his back to the kitchen. Claudia doesn’t make a sound as she stares at the back of her now son, the baggy top he’s wearing showing his prude backbone, the way it juts out of the skin and into the fabric grimly. Claudia resists the urge to run her hand down her sons back, to assure herself the lumps are not her sons spine, and it’s actually a fault in the shirt. She wants to assure herself that Stiles is not _that_ skinny.

Stiles is that skinny, though. So skinny that Claudia is sure her son is a handful of meals away from dropping dead. His skin has taken a drastic pallor since she left, a grey tinge taking it’s tone. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink, eaten a bite of food.

The sight is scary, shaking Claudia down to the bone, and she doesn’t know who to blame.

 _John would know what to do,_ she thinks grimly. He always had a way of getting through to their son, even if Stiles was actually closer with Claudia before they divorced. Stiles’ downhill struggled began long before John’s death, but it was madly influenced by the sudden absence of his father. Claudia can’t work out what she needs to do to make it better, but she knows she needs to do _something_.

Claudia slowly approaches her son, but the silence she doesn’t break keeps her son oblivious to her presence. Her son continues to keep his head ducked, pale neck exposed and shining in the sunlight that bleeds through the backdoor. Claudia is eventually close enough to see her son’s gentle movements over the sketchbook, the pencil leaving fine lines on the paper.

"Stiles," Claudia says, and she steps back when her son whole-body flinches, jerking away and hitting the door frame with his shoulder.

Stiles stares at her with wide, fearful eyes. His chest rises rapidly, and he swallows visibly, Adams apple bobbing.

"Is everything okay, sweetie?" Claudia asks. She crouches down beside her son, staring back at him and the small form he is.

"Y-yeah," he replies, voice hoarse, merely a croak. The sound alone proves to Claudia that her son is _far_ from okay. "Why?"

Claudia smiles gently, trying to coax her son into seeing her as anything but the monster he must believe she is. "Stiles," she says, "I need you to tell me what’s wrong."

"Nothings wrong," Stiles responds, the reply sounding automatic and empty. His face is blank, expression void. He looks back down at his sketchpad, avoiding Claudia’s gaze.

"I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong," Claudia sighs.

"I don’t need help," Stiles says, his voice a vessel of emotion. He doesn’t even look up. "I’m fine."

"Stiles, you are not fine— and that’s okay. It’s okay not to be okay, but you need to tell me what’s wrong."

"And what are you going to do?" Stiles speaks grimly. "Rub my shoulder? Dry my tears? Nothing you can do will make it any better."

"Stiles, you can—"

"No, I can’t," Stiles snaps, his head finally rising. His eyes are blazing, whiskey shade harsh. "Leave it alone. I don’t want to talk about it anymore."

"Okay. Okay, fine," Claudia stands up, "But you should eat something. What do you—"

"I’m not hungry," Stiles interrupts, rising to his feet and exiting the kitchen before Claudia can stop him.

*****

_Betrayal_ is probably the most accurate word to describe how Stiles feels that morning. He doesn’t know what he’s done in the last twenty-four hours to possess his mother to do this, but suddenly, she thinks it’s a brilliant idea to send Stiles back to the fucking shrink.

_Good job, mother. Extra brownie points for you._

Stiles wants to scream, cry, and vomit all at the same time.

He had stared at his mother in shock, dumbfounded when she had just blurted it out the moment he’d walked into the kitchen. There was is sugar coating, no easing into it. She just ripped the same bandaid off, and _damn_ , did it sting.

"Stiles, you know I’m worried about you, right? I’m doing this for you," Claudia says from the drivers seat. She’s driving quickly, and Stiles is desperate for her to slow down, because the faster she drives, the faster he’ll get to the last place on earth she wants to be.

"This isn’t going to work," Stiles says, his voice empty and seeping exhaustion. He didn’t sleep a wink. "She won’t help."

"Marin Morrell is the best in Beacon Hills," Claudia defends. Her tone is light and cheery, but yet, it is weighed down with something that Stiles can not define.

"She could be the best in the whole damn world," Stiles mutters, "She still won’t help."

The rest of the journey is silent. The only sound to be heard is the hum of the engine and the road under the rolling tyres. When they pull up outside the clinic, Stiles feels his throat close up.

"Do you want me to—"

Stiles cuts Claudia off by opening the car door. "No," he says. "I don’t want you to come in."

Without waiting for Claudia’s reply, he slams the car door shut as hard as he can, satisfied when he hears the sound of the metal creaking at the impact, before he storms towards the haunting building.

He knows his mother is still behind him, watching from the car. He has no chance of escaping now, no possible getaway.

His heart thumps with every step, each heavy thump like a gun shot, ringing and echoing in his ears. He isn’t ready for this. He can’t go back. He can’t do this _again_.

When he walks in, he isn’t sure if he’s thankful that the waiting area is completely empty or not. He only has to wait five minutes for Doctor Morrell to come out, but in that time, he’s almost thought himself into a panic attack. Every time he hears the sound of a door opening and closing, he can imagine Theo walking out. It’s ridiculous - why would Theo be at the fucking clinic? - but his mind won’t put the idea to rest.

He hasn’t sat in the leather cushioned chairs since his father. Since the death of his one good parent, and even then, the people here did nothing but show him worthless he is. With their pestering questions, sharp eyes and tiptoeing actions around tender subjects. They were like snakes, slithering around raw topics until suddenly, they _bite_. He can’t stand them. Every therapist his mother has sent him to see, have done nothing for him. If anything, they make him want to take the blade to his wrist once more, to relieve the building anxiety that swims through his veins and weighs down his bones.

"Stiles Stilinski."

The sound of his name being called jerks him physically out of his thoughts.

He looks to the only open door, where a woman with bronze skin and dark, straight hair is standing. She smiles, but it holds no warmth. "Come in."

Stiles can’t fantom enough how sadistic she sounds. Yet, as much as he’s screaming at himself not to, he enters the room. His muscles are as tense as a coiled spring, ready to snap.

The room smells like bleach, reminding Stiles of a hospital room. _This basically is a hospital_ , he tells himself. _A hospital for the weak_. Every surface of the room has been wiped clean, everything packed away in labelled boxes. There’s a desk in the corner, and on the other side of the room is where a sofa and a chair sit, between them a empty coffee table.

 _Brilliant_ , Stiles thinks grimly. _This isn’t uncomfortable at all_.

"Come sit over here, please," Marin says. Her voice is calm and even, toneless.

When he’s seated on the couch, the furniture too hard and stiff to slouch in - not that Stiles _could_ if he wanted to, too tense - the shrink sits in the chair opposite him. She has a notepad in her hand, along with a silver pen.

"Stiles, correct?" She asks. She sits straight, back as solid as a plank. Her hands are folded over the pad, legs crossed.

"You should know. You said it earlier," Stiles replies, tone cold. He isn’t sure if he intended for it to be cold, but it comes out like ice.

She smiles, though it looks strained. "Yes, I did. I was just making sure I pronounced it correctly."

Stiles tilts his head up slightly. "Trying to sound like you care?"

"I do care, Stiles," she replies. "If I didn’t care, I’d call you by your _real_ name. I use your preferred name because I care. If this is going to work, I need us to be able to speak comfortably with one another."

"That’s not going to happen," Stiles responses instantly. His hands have broken into sweat, clammy and gross where they’re trembling in his lap. He shoves them into his pockets, gripping the fabric. "How can I be 'comfortable' when you’re going to write down everything I say and compare it to someone else’s theory?"

"Does the notepad bother you?"

"Very much so. Yes."

Marin doesn’t move for a moment, but then, she stands and walks to her desk. She puts the notepad and pane down before she sits back opposite him again in the chair.

"There," she says, "no notepad, no notes, no recording. I’m not going to compare you to other theories, Stiles. I’m doing this because you mother thinks you’re troubled, and I want to help."

"You mean you get paid to help."

"If I was in this for the money, I would have quit by now and chosen a much easier job."  
Stiles shifts on the couch, watching her. "Fine," he says. "How are you going to 'help' me?"

"I was thinking we could start by getting to know each other."

Stiles narrows his eyes, "How many people have you done this with?"

Morrell raises a thin eyebrow, expression strained. "A few. Why? Do you not trust my expertise?"

"No. I’m just wondering how scripted all of this is," Stiles shrugs, "How much of it has come out a book that you read in college."

Morrell smiles again. "This isn’t coming from a book, Stiles. Trust me."

"How can I trust you?"

"Don’t, if you don’t want to. But, I want you to open up, tell me something, and then maybe we can work from there."

The conversation doesn’t escalate far from that. Stiles is blunt and still betrayed that his mother has sent him there. Morrell asks him what his hobbies are, changing the subject suddenly.

Stiles thinks about this— _really_ thinks about this.

Smoking like a chimney, drinking his liver to mush, purging till his throat is raw, slicing his wrists to ribbons, getting played like a—

"I draw," he tells her instead.

"What do you draw?"

"Anything and everything."

"Anything specific?"

"People."

"Are you good at it?"

Stiles shrugs.

"Stiles, next time you come in I want you to bring your sketchbook."

"Why?"

"Because, I’d love to see your drawings. I’m a big fan of art."

"What’s this got to do with a therapy session?" Stiles asks, frowning. "I thought you’re meant to make me better? To make me less broken?"

Marin shakes her head. "I don’t think you’re broken, Stiles. I think you’re different, and I think you need to find a way to express your feelings in a way that isn’t dangerous."

"You think I’m dangerous?"

"No," Marin replies. "I think you’re a danger to yourself."

 

_— tbc._


	9. this side of the moon

****"Stiles, this is Theo. Please, can— I need—. . . I need you to call me back. I need to— you can’t—. . . just call me back, let me explain and. . . just call me. Please, Stiles."

_Delete._

"Hi, Stiles, it’s me again. Look, I really need you to phone me back. I get that— I understand you—. . . what happened with Donovan, it. . . it was a mistake, Stiles. I didn’t. . . just fucking call me back."

_Delete._

"Stiles, please call me."

_Delete._

"Stiles, how long are you going to ignore me for? I saw Lydia today. She told me she hasn’t seen you either, and I—. . . I _need_ to see you, Stiles. I need to know you’re okay, so please, call me, or text me, just— _please_."

_Delete._

"Stiles, I don’t know how much longer you’re going to keep this up, but you need to know that I am so, _so_ sorry for what happened with Donovan, and please, for one second, don’t think that I had anything to do with it. I didn’t, Stiles. I’m friends with Donovan, but I would never, _never_ ask him to do that to you because I—. . . I . . . I’m sorry."

_Delete._

_Delete._

_Delete._

_Delete._

The house is empty, a silent vessel apart from the teen in the bathroom, who’s eyes are blurred with tears as the acidic vomit spills from his mouth and into the porcelain bowl. The vile, discoloured liquid splashes into the water below, the sound only making Stiles feel more nauseated. His throat burns, stomach spasms as he dry heaves for the following five minutes.

He collapses on the bathroom floor. His head spins as he stares at the white-painted ceiling, his eyes refusing to focus. There’s a rhythmic pounding behind his eyes, unsettling and consuming.

The smell of vomit fills the bathroom in a mist of misery, but Stiles doesn’t move. He’s unaffected as he tries to ignore the loud voices in his head, screaming at him to eat something just so he can vomit it back up like some mechanic robot. He continues to lay on the cold bathroom floor, his bones and muscles aching from the lack of nutrients he’s been consuming. _Eating is useless anyways_ , he reminds himself. Everything he’s tried eating since _that_ night has only come straight back up.

Stiles knows his mother has spoken to Morrell after his first shrink appointment two days ago. He can only imagine the things they said, considering his mother has spent the last 48 hours forcing and blackmailing food and treats down the young teens throat, possibly in the hope that he’d magically gain a healthy weight over night. Claudia has been in a flurry of sudden motherhood as she’s practically leaped onto the band-wagon of spending time with her son, which has only consisted them going out for dinner the night before, to which Stiles had sneaked off to vomit the meal straight back up in the bathroom stalls.

What Claudia doesn’t know, won’t hurt her. That’s Stiles’ motto, anyways.

Stiles isn’t even sure what he is throwing up. He’s done it so many times in the last twenty-four hours that he’s surprised no one in the house has caught on. The smell of vomit is so pollutant, and most likely sticks to Stiles like a vile cologne. Yet, no one has noticed.

No one _ever_ notices.

*****

Derek pulls up outside the grand Hale mansion, the breaks of his Camaro silent in the sleeping woods.

The day has played out smoothly for Derek. After going out for breakfast with his father and Cora, then spending the day practicing basketball with Danny and Jackson. The day has been good, a bright, sunny stretch of time in the cold winter that hangs over Beacon Hills only a week after Christmas.

Inside, the house is unsurprisingly cold. With Claudia out, his father in the next town over undergoing a 'very serious business engagement', and Cora is off doing whatever Cora does when she’s not terrorising the younger students at BHHS, Derek isn’t surprised to find the house without the heating on. The sharp chill clips at Derek’s bare arms as he walks in, a horrible reminder of the harsh winter that has rolled into the sleepy town of Beacon Hills.

Derek drops his gym bag on the sofa before he goes into the kitchen to grab a bottle of cold water from the fridge. Suppressing a shiver, Derek switches on the heating, turning the dial only low because he doesn’t want the house to feel like a sauna. With his water and his gym bag, Derek quickly dashes up the stairs with the intention of going into his bedroom to start Finstock’s Christmas break assignment, but the sight of the lit bathroom light the bleeds out the agar door into the dark hallway catches his eye. Derek frowns, dropping his bottle and bag, and stalking towards the closed door.

"Stiles?" He calls cautiously.

He knows the younger boy is home, or at least, he was the last time Derek checked. Stiles has seemed to be avoiding the outside world since the night Derek picked him up off the street smelling like a brewery. Derek is worried, because Stiles has been clearly falling into a deep hole of misery, and he seriously needs help getting out of it. And by 'help', Derek does not mean therapy. He knows Claudia sends him there out of her best intentions, but even Derek can see it isn’t helping Stiles in the slightest, smallest ways.

Derek enters the bathroom quickly when he gets no reply, pushing the door further open. The florescent light shines in Derek’s eyes, but it does nothing to take them off the crumpled form curled up on the floor.

"Stiles!" Derek shouts, diving further into the bathroom and dropping down beside the small teen. Derek’s mind is running a mile a minute, thoughts frantic and blurred together as he uncurls Stiles by his shoulders.

The younger teen flops onto his back like a limp rag doll, head and limbs lolling with the motion. Stiles is out cold, unresponsive, and his grey hoodie is drenched in sweat. His skin is clammy and cold, drained white like he’s already dead. His dark locks are curled and damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead and contrasting against the sickly, ashen complexion.

Derek’s heart clenches, taking in the sight of the sick form that he had stupidly thought, and hoped, was getting better.

Letting out a string of bitter and angry curse words, Derek tries to get a response from Stiles. Be it a flinch, or a twitch, or _something_ , just something to show him that Stiles is still there. For good measure and assurance to himself, he can’t help but press his fingers into Stiles’ neck to detect the weak, fluttering pause that is the only still promising Derek that the pale teen _is_ still alive.

Derek can’t decide if he’s angry with Stiles, or with himself. He can’t fantom how _stupid_ Stiles is for neglecting the common and urgent need for nutrition, but he also realises then that Stiles is clearly more depressed than he thought, and whatever has happened to him to make him the way is much, _much_ more serious than Derek had ever thought.

He shakes Stiles’ shoulder, still trying and failing to get a reaction out of the boy who seems completely dead to the world. Derek is beginning to panic now, because if Stiles isn’t waking up, then there might be more than just malnutrition eating his insides. Different kinds of shock flash in Derek’s mind, and he pushes them all away when he recognises the smell of vomit burning his nose. He gags, eyes widening and staring at the toilet. Every passing moment shows Derek that Stiles’ life is more and more troubled, and that Derek, and his family, have been too blind to see it.

Deciding the bathroom is no place to wake Stiles up from this, Derek scoops the teen up with one arm under his knees and the other supporting his back. He tries not to think about how light Stiles is in his arms, how sickly and weightless he is, as he carries him out of the bathroom and downstairs.

When he lays Stiles down on the couch, the smaller finally appears to be coming around. His head lolls bonelessly on the couch arm, fingers twitching and eyebrows furrowing, as if he’s experiencing a awful headache. _Good_ , Derek thinks. _Might teach him a fucking lesson_.

"Stiles?" Derek tries, and Stiles finally cracks open two bloodshot eyes, framed by sunken, purple half-moons.

"'m sorry," Stiles mumbles, eyes half-lidded and dazes. His words slur, like they’re too heavy on his tongue. He only seems half lucid, like he’s drunk and close to passing out again. "'m sorry 'm a fuck-up."

"No, no, Stiles, you’re not," Derek sighs.

He runs a hand through the boys hair, the damp strands leaving wetness behind on his fingers. Derek wipes his hand on his trousers, and makes a quick dash into the kitchen. He grabs a can of soda from Cora’s stash at the back of the fridge, and takes it back to Stiles, who seems to be falling asleep where he lays. Derek can _not_ let that happen.

"Hey. Hey, hey!" He says, grabbing Stiles’ shoulder and shaking his hard enough for the boys head to roll and his eyes to sluggishly peel open. "You need to drink something."

Derek helps Stiles sit up, the sharp, jutting bone of his shoulder digging painfully into his palm. Stiles seems to prove that holding a can is difficult enough, especially as his fingers struggle to get a grip on the cold, slippery drink, curled limply with little stability. Derek barely manages to catch it before it drops onto his chest. Sighing, because this is proving to be far harder than he expected, Derek holds the can to Stiles’ lips and waits for a the nearly asleep teen to finally latch on.

"Come on, Stiles," he urges, taking one of Stiles’ cold, clammy hands in his own. The boys fingers are as limp as they were when they originally loosely held onto the can. Stiles continues to take small, pathetic little sips of soda, barely taking anything in, but it’s progress. It’s _something_.

Derek feels the weight of panic and adrenaline disperse on him, leaving him slumping and mentally exhausted. He feels like he did that night on the road, with Stiles screaming hysterically and smelling of booze and nicotine. He feels helpless again, scared to his core that Stiles is going to do something stupid. Hell, he’s already _done_ something stupid by trying to starve himself to death.

Derek feels physically sick looking at the state of Stiles now. The boy was thin, pale and all kinds of melancholy when he first moved in, but now, there’s barely anything left. Stiles is merely bones and stretched skin, white like paper, his eyes sunken and worn like a dying cancer patient. His lips are cracked and colourless, his hair greasy and unruly. Stiles is running himself into an early grave, and Derek just can’t have that. He can’t watch the boy he’s come to mysteriously care about, who he considers as his brother, kill himself.

Derek has to find a way to help him, and as Derek runs his fingers through the greasy strands of the younger boys hair in comfort, he decides he’s going to do something.

 

"A vacation?"

Derek shifts from foot to foot, hands clasped together nervously. "Think of it more as a well-needed break."

Claudia and Robert are sitting on the couch, where they had been directed the moment they got home by Derek. By that time, Stiles had seemed to come back to himself and quickly shut himself away in his bedroom, but not before Derek manage to shove some toast down his throat. Derek is still wildly concerned about the younger boys well-being, and has been keeping a close ear out for upstairs incase Stiles comes out of his room. Though, it’s been a good hour since he ate the slice of buttered toast, so Derek isn’t too worried about Stiles trying to purge in the bathroom again.

"Derek, I’m not sure this is a good idea," Claudia begins, voice slow and almost patronising. She sounds like she’s trying to let Derek down easy. "Stiles is. . . troubled enough. I don’t think—"

"Claudia, with all due respect, I think a few days away from here is _exactly_ what Stiles needs," Derek interrupts. He tries to keep his voice gentle, because he doesn’t want to fall out with Claudia. The last thing he needs is for Claudia to get upset, especially with her recent mood swings.

"What Stiles 'needs' is to be here, with me and Morrell," Claudia insists, and Derek barely refrains from pointing out to her that the _last_ thing Stiles needs is another useless shrink session and his mothers tunnel vision on his health. "I don’t want my son on the other side of the country with a bunch of people he doesn’t know when he’s so fragile."

"I know New York is far, Claudia," Derek says, biting back his sigh, "but he won’t be around people he doesn’t know. Cora and I will be there. It’s already arranged, Talia knows me and Cora are coming, and she won’t mind us bringing Stiles along."

"Derek, I—"

"I think it’s a brilliant idea," Robert interjects, surprising them both.

Derek feels his eyebrows crawl up his forehead into his hairline. He’s surprised, but not overly surprised. He’s had his suspicions that his father would be more on board with his idea than Claudia. Robert is probably keen to get Stiles out of town, especially as Derek knows how negatively his father feels about Stiles.

"Robert—" Claudia starts, eyes wide and worry streaked over her expression.

"Claudia, love, think about it," Robert interrupts, his voice smooth and slick, as if he’s consulting with a work client. "If Derek takes him, Stiles will get a few nights out of town and away from whatever is freaking him out, and we get a few nights alone. It’ll be good for everyone."

Derek skims over the thoughts about 'we get a few nights alone', because honestly, he doesn’t need any visuals.

Claudia opens her mouth to speak, but she closes it shut with a tired sigh. She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, and drops her face in her hands. Derek can see her faintly shaking her head.

"Claudia, I promise Stiles will be fine with us," Derek says. "He won’t be in any danger, and a change of scenery might be good for him."

Claudia lifts her head slightly, and Derek can see her eyes glistening with tears. "He’s never been out of town before. Hell, he’s never been away from me since his father—"

"All the more reason to start now," Derek cuts her off. He walks forward and kneels down in front of her, taking her small hands in his own. He looks up into the coffee-brown eyes that look so much like her sons. "Claudia, Stiles needs this. He needs a break. Something is bothering him here, and I am worried. I’m _terrified_ something horrible is going to happen if he doesn’t get out now. Please, I am asking you, let me take Stiles to New York. It’s only for a few days, and me, Cora, Laura and Talia will take good care of him. I promise, Claudia. _Please_."

Claudia stares at him, gaze intense and sad. For a moment, Derek is sure she’s going to say no, to insist that Stiles is better off in this god-forsaken home where he spends all of his time purging stomach acid and drowning in his own misery.

"Fine," Claudia finally says, and Derek lets out a breath of relief he didn’t know he was holding. " _But_ , I want a phone call everyday from you _and_ Stiles, and I want to speak to Talia myself."

"Of course! Yes, of course," Derek says, smiling. He lets out a heavy breath, "Thank you, Claudia. This will help him, I’m sure."

Claudia smiles, small but sweet. She looks truly heartbroken.

"You should phone Talia," Robert says, standing up. "Tell her you’re bringing a friend along."

Derek refuses to bristle at the term 'friend'.

"She knows," he replies. "I phoned her before to make sure it was all okay with her."

Robert nods. "All right. It’s set then. When are you going again?"

"Tomorrow morning," Derek says. "I’m gonna drive."

"That’s a 42-hour drive," Robert looks at him sharply. "Wouldn’t it be easier to get a flight?"

"Probably," Derek answers honestly, "but I thought Claudia would prefer Stiles to be in a car instead of a plane."

"That’s a lot of driving for you to do, Derek," Claudia muses, "Get a flight. It’ll be easier on all of you."

Derek nods. "Okay."

*****

At first, the idea of going away sounds nice. Four nights away from the shit-storm that is home, away from therapists and his pestering mother, but then Stiles remembers the nightmares, the screaming himself awake to escape the monsters behind his eyelids. He remembers the panic attacks, more frequent now than ever, the cutting, the purging, and everything else that comes with Stiles. He realises, horribly, that he can’t go to someone else’s house and let them see it all.

Stiles was beyond embarrassed when Derek found him passed out on the bathroom floor, and even more humiliated when Derek tried to have a heart-to-heart with him while forcing some toast down his throat. Stiles knows he was being too careless, and if Derek hadn’t come home when he did, or worse, come home _earlier_ and caught Stiles in the act, then he’d be in more of state then he is now.

But, still, Stiles isn’t ready to go away. He isn’t ready to go to someone else’s house, for them to judge and laugh and look down on him like the piece of filth Theo used him as.

He doesn’t really have any choice in the matter, though,. He isn’t told until the night before when his mother drags him out of his room for dinner, and announces that he’s going to be joining Derek and Cora on their trip to New York.

Stiles doesn’t sleep on the plane. He’s never been on a plane before, and he spends the whole time forcing himself to _not_ throw up. He’s plagued with the fear of humiliation that if he falls asleep, he has the same, if not more, of a chance of waking up from a nightmare and screaming bloody-murder on a damn plane. Derek had gotten Stiles a window seta, and due to them flying during the day time, Stiles is able to distract himself by looking out the window for the whole five and a half hours of the flight. It’s almost breathtaking what he sees out the window, but at the same time, he feels like he can’t concentrate on a single thing. There’s a constant nagging at the back of his mind, a harsh pull that’s like a anchor, sinking all of his thoughts into a black pit.

Stiles doesn’t realise he’s beginning to doze off until he feels his chin hitting his chest. His head jerks up, whole body tensing like he’s been shocked. He gasps, breath suddenly lost, eyes skirting around the plane.

"Hey," Derek says beside him. Stiles keeps his eyes down, not looking at the teen as anxiety grips his limbs in vices. "You okay?"

Stiles nods shakily, drawing in a gulp full of stale air. He feels himself calming down, but he can’t rest completely. Relaxation is far from where he is.

"You sure?" Derek presses softly. Stiles can hear the concern in his tone, though he can’t make out if its genuine or not.

"Y-yeah," Stiles answers, voice small and breathless. He isn’t used to Derek caring, and he isn’t sure if he can get used to it.

Stiles had turned his phone on 'airplane mode' when he boarded the plane, but he keeps subconsciously looking at his screen, turning it on to see if he has any missed messages or calls, anything from _Theo._ It’s annoying, and quite frankly _terrifying_ , because Theo had made Donovan do what he did, and Stiles knows he shouldn’t be wanting anything to do with Theo anymore, but at the same time, Theo was his _everything_. Theo helped him, he saved him from the black hole he dove face-first into when he moved into the Hale house. Theo hadn’t judged him, or tried to change him, or laugh at his pathetic-ness. Theo had cared about him, love him, and looked at him as if he is nothing less than himself.

Stiles is refusing to reply to Theo in fear that it is all an act, that it _all_ has been an act, but at the same time, he doesn’t want Theo to stop calling. The sound of the other boys voice is an anchor, keeping him grounded and calm. It’s strange, and Stiles knows no one will understand.

The flight passes in a blur. His eyes refuse to focus on anything, as does his mind when he tries to focus on anything but Theo.

_Theo._

_Theo, Theo, Theo._

All the memories, all the small talk. They way he made Stiles feel when they sat alone, curled up in Theo’s bed, the slowly descending high they’d smoked themselves to wearing off deliciously. Stiles misses him. He misses him _so much_ it _hurts_. He feels himself spinning down, tumbling down the dark spirally road. His pain is uncontrollable. Theo is controlling this pain, he’s causing it and driving the wheel.

Stiles hates this kind of pain.

He’s off the plane before he knows it, trailing behind Derek and Cora like a sulking child. He’s got his rucksack hanging heavily on his back, his hands twisted in the straps hooked over his shoulders, knuckles white. Derek and Cora weave through the crowds of people, flashing their passports when needed, and before Stiles knows it, they’re walking out of the airport building and onto the busy streets. The plane hadn’t been a direct route to New York, but instead landed them just outside of Queens. Stiles is about to ask where they’re going now, when someone shouts from behind them.

"Derek! Cora!"

The trio spin around, and Stiles barely has a second to see the two women crossing the road before Cora is dropping her bags and running.

"Derek—?" Stiles begins, but he cuts himself off when he sees Derek smiling widely, wider than Stiles has ever seen, watching the three in front of him as Cora practically _throws_ herself into the older woman’s arms.

He can hear Cora and the other two talking, the pair of them flustering over Cora like a lost child they’ve finally found. Cora spins around to look at Stiles and Derek, and for the first time, she looks genially happy. Her face is open, her mouth stretched wide in an impossibly broad smile, eyes bright and practically _glowing_.

The older woman begins to approach, stepping around Cora and the other girl. She’s soft with age, just beginning to gain wrinkles around her eyes. Her hair is dark, almost the identical shade to Derek’s, only longer and tied into a elegant plait down her back. She’s wearing jeans, the cuffs tucked into the mouth of her tightly tied black boots, her black turtle neck and long beige pea coat making her look tall and thin.

"Derek, love," she says, smiling and pulling Derek into a fierce hug.

"Mom," Derek replies, hugging back just as tight. Stiles feels truly shell-shocked. He’s never seen Derek hug like this, or Cora smile, or either of them seems as happy as they do now. He didn’t think it was this possible to be _this_ happy.

Their hug lasted a while, and by the time they’ve finished, Cora and the other girl have come back over and Stiles is feeling more than uncomfortable. He feels like he’s intruding something. This is a family reunion, this is _their_ family, and Stiles is—

"Mom," Derek repeats, pulling away gently, "This is Stiles, Claudia’s son who I told you about."

A huge spotlight finds him suddenly. Stiles feels his heart pound and his palms dampen when Derek’s mother turns her head towards him, her piercing green eyes looking directly at him.

And then, she smiles.

"Hello, Stiles," she says, eyes and voice comfortably soft, like melting butter. "I’m Talia, and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Oh— uh. . . I. . . h-h-hello. . ." Stiles stammers, eyes skirting around nervously. His voice shakes, wavering like a loose line. Talia seems to notice his discomfort, and quickly but calmly, she steps forward and pulls him into his chest. At first, Stiles full-body flinches like he’s been slapped. But, before he can stop himself, he’s sagging against Talia’s equally as tall form, melting into the hug. It’s nice, warm. He hasn’t been hugged like that in a long time, the action washing away the emerging panic like a wave of calm. He hugs back, resting his head on her shoulder and hiding his face. He feels almost embarrassed.

"You don’t have to worry, love," Talia says, rubbing his back. "You’re safe with us."

 

In Talia’s car, Stiles is introduced to Laura - Derek and Cora’s older sister. Laura looks a lot like her mother, sharing the same 'Hale' appearance as Derek. The three of them all seem to have raven black hair, fair skin and green eyes, and even though Laura is the most pale out of the Hale family, she is far from Stiles' shade. Laura is more sharp than Talia, quick-witted, humorous to the point that even Stiles can’t help but join in on.

They get to Talia’s home in no time, turning onto a quiet suburban road. The houses are fairly large, but no where near as large as the Hale mansion. Stiles is almost shocked when Talia rolls onto a large drive way, crawling up towards the house. Stiles takes a moment to admire it. It’s small and cosy, all painted white. There’s a decent sized porch, with a pair of wicker chairs and a table on the front. The front door is red, hanging plant pots overflowing with flowers on either side. The windows have grey shutters, all of then open and laying flat back against the white boards of the house.

"Woah," Stiles breaths as he makes his way out of the car, taking his rucksack that was in-between his legs with him. He hears someone chuckle behind him.

"You like it?" Laura asks, coming up to stand next to him. If she notices his flinch in surprise, she doesn’t mention it.

"Oh— uh, yeah. Y-yeah, it’s. . . nice," he stammers lamely, and immediately winces.

"It’s even nicer inside," Talia says kindly, passing them with bags in her hand. Stiles recognises them as full grocery bags, and instantly, he feels his empty stomach drop to the floor.

Talia has no idea about his. . . eating habits. No one - except Derek, Stiles is sure after the last _incident_ they had - know about his trouble with food. No one will _understand_.

"I’m surprised you like New York so much, mom," Cora says as she begins to trail after her mother, bouncing up the porch steps. "I thought you hated the city."

"I do," Talia replies, "but it’s not so bad out here. It’s not as quiet as the Preserve, but it’s still nice."

The three girls walk inside the house, leaving Stiles dumbstruck and staring. He feels a hand clap his shoulder and spins around to see Derek.

"You okay?" He asks.

 _Damn,_ Stiles thinks, _does he ever stop asking me that?_

Stiles nods.

"You’ll like it here," Derek says, beginning to walk up to the house and almost automatically, Stiles trails after him. "Like mom said, it’s not quite as quiet as Beacon Hills, but it’s quieter than in the main city."

"Have you ever been out here before?" Stiles asks.

"No, only when I came to view it with mom while it was still on the market. This is the first time I’m seeing the house since she bought it."

They walk inside, and Stiles is instantly hit with the smell of fresh cinnamon. It’s almost like walking into a airbag, a huge, sudden slap to the face.

"Laura has an obsession with _Yankee Candles_ ," Derek explains, flashing him a look of sympathy. "Cinnamon is her favourite, and she has her candles burning practically twenty-four-seven. So, sorry about the smell."

Stiles shakes his head, quietly mumbling, "It’s fine."

Walking directly through the front door, Stiles finds himself standing in the living room, where there is two sofa’s boxed around a large TV on a pine cabinet. At the end of the room, there are two wide reading chairs either side of a stone fireplace, unlit and cleaned out. The walls are painted a pale cream, the alcoves beside the chimney-breast lined with bookshelves, filled with books. The cabinets and the fireplace are covered in ornaments and photo frames, holding pictures of all four Hales of different ages at different stages in their lives. Stiles instantly notices that not a single one of them his Robert in it. He wonders then if it’s intentional, or if Robert just wasn’t around to be in them. He decides it’s properly the latter.

Directly opposite the front door is a large arch that leads from the lounge into the kitchen-diner. At one end of the room is the kitchen, a island sitting in the centre with four bar stools on one side and the kitchen spread out on the other. Pots and pans hang from the ceiling, white cabinets and pale work stops immaculately clean. Under the thick mask of cinnamon candles, Stiles can smell freshly baked cookies, and even he can’t disguise the rumble in his stomach. He’s always loved cookies, and he can’t remember the last time he had one.

At the other end of the room is a dining table and six chairs, a full vase of colourful flowers in the middle. Behind it, against the wall, is a file of stairs leading to the second floor.

"Right," Talia begins, standing up from where she was crouched by the oven. She turns to look at them all, "How about we show you three to your rooms and you can unpack."

"Sure," Cora replies from where she’s sitting on one of the bar stools, "What’s the plan for dinner?"

"I was thinking we could go out tonight, treat you all to a proper New York dinner!" Talia says, smiling kindly. Stiles wants to smile back, wants to show his appreciation, but he _can’t_ because Talia wants to go out for dinner. Purging in public toilets is harder, but at least the smell won’t linger in the house.

Upstairs is a simple corridor with six doors leading off. There’s a skylight in the ceiling, allowing the shinning rays to bleed into the hallway, brightening the whole strip of corridor and white walls.

"The first door is the bathroom," Talia explains, pointing to the first white painted door at the top of the landing. "This is your bedroom, Cora. This is Laura’s - enter at your own risk—"

"Do not go in my room," Laura interrupts from behind them, and Stiles stifles a laugh at the glare she flashes her siblings.

"Stiles, this is your room, and Derek, you’re room is the door at the end," Talia finishes.

Cora doesn’t waste a moment to burst into her bedroom, throwing the door open and darting inside to look around. Stiles watches Laura walk in after her, grinning at her sisters reaction, before he turns around and slowly enters the room he’s been given. The room isn’t anything special, just a double bed, basic desk, wardrobe and a matching chest of draws. It’s nothing glamorous, only plain, brown pine furniture.

Yet, it it still knocks the air out of his lungs. He closes the door behind him and slides down the cool painted surface until his butt hits the floor. The room looks so much like his own - his _real_ room at his real house, where his mom and dad used to share and love and live. It rips at his chest like a clawed hand, all the air being sucked out of the room in a vacuum, leaving him gasping on the floor. His eyes burn with tears, cheeks suddenly wet and he doesn’t realise he’s in the middle of a full-blown panic attack until someone is knocking at the door, their muffled voice snapping into his hearing like someone has turned the volume up.

"—tiles? Is he okay?" He recognises Talia’s voice, thick with concern.

"Stiles, open the door. Please, open the door!" Derek’s voice booms through like gun fire, shape and loud and rapid. "Stiles! Dammit!"

The pounding continues, and Stiles realises then that he’s blocking the door for them to get inside. He can’t move. He can’t let them _see_ him like _this_. It’s pathetic— _he’s_ pathetic. He’s panicking over _furniture_. He’s never felt so stupid and childish. He claws for his phone out of pocket, shaky fingers slipping on the glass screen as he unlocks it, cursing himself for putting a stupid, complicated password on it. He goes into his voicemails, dialling it and pressing it to his ear. It isn’t until Theo’s voice filters through that he finally feels the air reach his deprived lungs.

"Hey, Stiles. I don’t know how many times I need to tell you, but I’m not gonna keep phoning you. I’m sorry, Stiles. I love you, and I’m not giving up on us until you tell me— tell me _yourself_ that you want nothing to do with me. Please, let me explain, let me tell you the truth, and then you can tell me to stay away. And I will, just. . . please, give me another chance."

Stiles feels the world suddenly zone into focus. His breath comes steady and in huge, hungry gulps. He is then aware of the continuous knocks still rasping against the other side of his door.

"Stiles, love, are you—"

"I’m o-okay," Stiles says, cutting Talia off. His voice shakes, and it sounds weak even in his own ears. Regardless, Talia seems relieved.

"Can you come out?"

Stiles shakes his head, forgetting they can’t see him. "N-no. I’m sorry. I just— I need to be alone. S-sorry—"

"It’s fine," Talia sooth, and Stiles knows she’s a mother by the way her voice is comforting him even without her really trying. "We’ll be downstairs, okay? Come down when you’re ready."

"Okay," Stiles replies, barely holding back the sob. He hears the sound of descending footsteps, waiting for them to disappear before he scrambles up off the floor and launches himself onto the bed. Curling onto his side into an impossibly small ball, he goes through his voicemails again, listening to _his_ voice. It hurts as much as it soothes. He misses him, so _fucking_ much.

*****

"What was all that about?" Laura asks as soon as they are in the kitchen.

Derek knew this was coming, but he hadn’t realised Stiles was going to be set off so soon. And by what? Derek can’t figure out _what_ in that room had triggered the younger boy so bad.

Derek sighs, "Laura—"

"Seriously, I know you said he was trouble, but _fuck!"_ Laura exclaims, "What the hell happened?"

"Laura!" Talia scolds, looking at her oldest daughter with disapproving eyes. "Don’t you dare speak like that! That poor boy is—. . ." she trails off, eyes haze over, glassing as if hearing Stiles like the through the door hurt as much as if he was her own. "We need to help him, and you _screaming_ is not helping."

"I’m sorry," Laura apologises, "I’m just— freaked! He was panicking and we couldn’t—. . ." she deflates like a punctured balloon.

Derek hates this about his sister; despite her upfront barrier of wit and high head, she is actually surprisingly sensitive. She’s too caring, too engrossed in helping people to the point that her own well-being is one the line. He can see it now, in her sad expression and desperate eyes, that she is not going to let Stiles go home without doing her upmost to help him.

"I know, love," Talia says, voice soft, stroking the back of Laura’s hair soothingly. "We’ll help him, but, you need to remember, we can only help those who want help."

Laura nods, even though Derek knows she’s not agreeing. She looks up, eyes directly on Derek, "What happened to him?"

Derek shakes his head. "I don’t know, not really."

"He was pretty fucked-up before he moved in with us," Cora adds, tone nonchalant, and everyone’s heads snap towards her.

"Cora!" Talia snaps.

Cora shrinks, "Sorry! He’s just— it’s not our fault, mom."

"I think it has a lot to do with his father," Derek says, and he almost feels guilty for talking about the boy when he isn’t in the room. He knows how Stiles is, and if the boy knows they are discussing him, Derek wouldn’t be surprised if Stiles goes as far as running away. "His father passed away just before they moved in, and before that, his mother had an affair with Robert."

Talia nods. "I don’t know who his mother is, but from what Cora has told us, she doesn’t seem very. . . motherly."

Derek chuckles, "Yeah. She’s not. . . well, she can be— y’know. . ."

"She’s a bitch," Cora finishes, once again, tone coldly blunt and to the point.

Laura laughs, straight-out and ignoring Talia’s glare. "Oh, come on! _That_ was funny."

"That’s his mother," Talia says humourlessly, arms crossed over her chest, "Have some respect."

"Do you really think we can help him?" Derek asks, feeling almost ashamed at how small his voice sounds. He’s come, quite drastically, to care for the damaged boy and he wants nothing more than to help him on a road of recovery. He just doesn’t know how.

Talia smiles at him softly, sadly. She leans against the island opposite were Derek is sitting and reaches across to grab his hand.

"Yes, I think we can," she says, "It’ll just take time, and love, and patience. We need to go at his pace, make sure we don’t smother him, but instead give him enough support that he can do it himself."

Derek nods.

Talia looks at the clock. "Four thirty," she reads, and looks at the girls and Derek, "How about we go into town and see if we can find somewhere to eat? You must all be starving, and Stiles looks horribly thin."

"Yeah, he doesn’t really. . . uh. . . eat," Derek admits. He feels suddenly riddled with guilt, like he’s betraying Stiles by saying it. He rubs the back of his neck, the action throwing him as he realises he’s picked up the nervous habit from the younger boy himself. "I caught him the other week passed out after. . ." he trails off, waiting for everyone to pick up on the unspoken 'purging' that hangs heavily in the air.

When they realise, Talia goes ghost white, Laura gasps, and Cora mutters a hushed, "Oh shit."

Derek nods, swallowing thickly and avoiding the eyes of the females in the room. He is swarmed with guilt and worry. The boy directly above them on the second floor is in a mist of panic and pain right now, and Derek is down here spilling his secrets.

"I’ll go get him," Derek says, standing up.

Derek quickly finds himself standing outside Stiles’ temporary bedroom door. His nose is inches from the wooden surface, hand itching at his side. He’s anxious now to know as to what is going on on the other side, concerned and worried. He rasps his knuckles against the door gently, knowing Stiles’ history for being easily frightened.

"Yeah?" A soft reply comes from inside.

"Uh. . ." Derek clears his throat, "Can I come in?"

There’s a long moment, and Derek is sure he hears frantic rusting, before Stiles shouts acceptance.

"You can come in now."

He opens the door cautiously, breathing out a breath of relief that he hadn’t realised he was holding when he sees Stiles sitting in the middle of the perfectly made bed, his closed sketchbook and some scattered pencils by his side.

"We’re going to go out for an early dinner," Derek says, hoping his words come across that it isn’t an offer, that Stiles is _going_ to come.

Stiles, thankfully, nods, "Okay. Now?"

Derek nods, and watches Stiles cautiously climb off the bed. The younger boy stands, looking at the floor and worries his lower lip. Derek feels the worry tense his shoulder, eyeing Stiles’ restless hands that are grinding together.

"I—" Stiles starts, but instantly cuts himself off. He avoids Derek eyes, body coiled tight like a spring. "I’m sorry, by the way. F-for earlier, I—"

"It’s fine," Derek quickly says, because it is. Stiles can’t help what happened, and he definitely shouldn’t be _sorry_ about it. "Are you. . . are you okay?"

Stiles looks up then, eyes locking onto Derek’s. The whiskey, bruised eyes star at him with such vulnerability that Derek doesn’t know if he wants to hug Stiles and comfort him, or hunt down all the things that have done this to him.

"Yeah," Stiles replies, but it sounds weak. "I’m fine."

Not for one second does Derek believe his words, but his mother’s voice rings in his head.

_It’ll just take time, and love, and patience. We need to go at his pace, make sure we don’t smother him, but instead give him enough support that he can do it himself._

Time, love and patience. That’s all it takes, Derek tells himself, and he is determined.

 

They decide on a burger finer, sporting old fashioned red leather booths and checkered floor tiles. Cora orders a strawberry milkshake and a cheese burger, Laura orders a chocolate milkshake and a double bacon burger with extra fries. Derek would be shocked and sputter at the shire size of his sisters greedy portion, but Laura has always been able to wolf down food and miraculously gain nothing from the unhealthy monstrosity she consumes. Derek orders a simple banana milkshake and a burger, smiling when his mother orders the same. He forgets how much he is like his mother, and their love for similar foods being something similar between them.

When the time comes to Stiles to order, who has been sheepishly hiding behind the large menu the entire time the waitress is by the table, Derek feels nervous. He knows Stiles is uncomfortable, being out with a circle of new people doing the one thing Derek knows he hates most. Derek wonders, again, what had pushed Stiles into the thought that food was bad. He realises if he wants to know, he needs to gain Stiles’ trust.

Time, love and patience.

"I’ll just have a water and some curly fries please," Stiles finally says. He hands the menu over with shaking hands, shoulders hunched and tiny form curled up in the corner of the booth. Derek exchanges sad eyes with his mother, who looks seconds away from scooping Stiles up out of the seat and mothering him silly.

"Make that a large portion of curly fries," Laura adds before the waitress leaves. Derek feels his stomach coil, worried his sister has ruined it and pushed too far too fast. But, then, Laura looks to Stiles and sends him the warmest smile Derek has ever seen his sister wear. "If you can’t finish them, I’ll help you." She says, winking.

Stiles’ face, originally blank and weary, curls at the corners of his mouth in a small, weak smile, and it has Derek slouching with relief.

"So, Derek, how is senior year?" Laura asks while they’re waiting for their food.

Derek shrugs. "Alright, I guess."

"Let me guess. . ." Laura grins, leaning forward on her elbows, "you have homework stacked up as high as the Eiffel Tower, but you spend all your free time partying and playing basket ball with your douche-bag friends?"

Derek glares, about to snap a response when he feels Stiles chuckle next to him. The action is discrete, almost missable, but it was definitely there. It was real, and Derek has never felt happier. He speaks with less venom then he expects, "Fuck off."

Laura throws her head back and laughs exaggeratedly. "It’s okay. My senior year was spent drinking and sleeping on Kathleen’s bathroom floor. You know, the girl who you had a huge cru—"  
"Yes, Laura, I remember," Derek says hastily, saving himself from eternal embarrassment. He back peddles on Laura’s first words, "and my friends aren’t douche-bags!"

Laura scoffs, "Sure, Jan," she quotes, and Derek’s glare only hardens. "You can’t even deny it, Derek! That Erica girl is too snarky for her own good. Jackson is just. . . there aren’t enough curse words in the dictionary to describe _that_ jackass. Isaac is a try-hard who _wants_ to be tough, but is too much of a wimp. The only decent ones are Danny and Boyd, but they aren’t exactly friendly."

"Have you finished verbally bashing my friends now?" Derek sighs. He’s heard all of this before.

"Not even close, but we have better things to discuss," Laura quips, straightening up and turning to look at Stiles. "How old are you, kid?"

Stiles shifts uncomfortably under the spotlight. "Fifteen."

"Cool," Laura nods, "So are you in freshman or sophomore?"

"I’m actually a junior," Stiles says, voice quiet, almost embarrassed.

Laura’s eyes almost bulge out of her head, "But—"

"I got into high school a year early," Stiles explains quickly.

Derek isn’t surprised to see the shock on Laura and his mothers face. Getting into high school a year early is impressive, especially considering the first impression they’ve got from Stiles.

"You must be a genius!" Laura exclaims, eyes wide and smile so bright. "Maybe you could teach Derek a few things. Make sure him and his walnut-brain don’t fail high school."

Derek shoots her another glare, but beside him, Stiles chuckles.

"I’m not a genius," Stiles says, but his voice is still fond and lighter than Derek has ever heard it before.

_Time, love and patience._

"You must be pretty freaking smart to get into high school early. Hell, _I_ barely got in when I was meant to!" Laura laughs.

"You’re in college, aren’t you?" Stiles asks.

Laura nods, grinning.

"What are you studying?"

"Criminology and doctor science."

"Criminology? You want to be a cop?" Stiles asks, and by the sound of his tone, he sounds genially interested. He’s leaning forward, arms crossed on the table, fully engaged. Derek is surprised, the whole scene making his wonder how Laura, of all people, has managed to pry Stiles out of his shell.

"No," Laura replies. "I want to be a medical examiner, like a forensic analyst, but I want to focus more on the body at the scene instead of in a morgue."

"That sounds so cool," Stiles smiles, "Have you watched Dexter?"

Laura’s face lights up and Derek internally groans. _Great_ , he thinks, _now Stiles has got her started. . ._

"Yes!" She squeaks. "I love that show! Have you watched it?"

Stiles nods and instantly, the pair of them spiral into an intense and detailed discussion about the entire eight-seasoned show.

The food arrives at some point, the pair still babbling on about the TV show. Derek can see even his mother is surprised at the amount the pair are talking. They all know Laura is a chatter box, but Derek has never seen Stiles so interactive. Stiles has always come across as quiet, concealed and angry. He seems fragile and breakable, snarky and arrogant. He uses sarcasm and anger to disguise the pain he’s riddled with.

This is a completely different person. He’s mentally weightless, smiling and talking a mile a minute. It’s refreshing, and Derek wants to know what has changed in Stiles to make him crawl out from behind his mask.

Was it the change in scenery?

The new people?

The _different_ people?

Is Stiles just simply _this_ obsessed with Dexter?

Derek shakes the last thought away, knowing if Stiles is really _this_ obsessed then he would have spoken up about it before.

Derek watches in fascination and wonder as Stiles idly picks at his portion of curly fries, listening to Laura’s half of the conversation before firing back a stream of words.

It takes them half an hour before Laura and Stiles stop talking about the TV show. By that point, they must notice that no one else has managed to get a word in since they started talking, and both sit back in mild embarrassment.

"We can continue talking about this later," Laura says, winking at him again, and Stiles nods with a small smile.

Derek feels like something had formed between them all, something strong and warm and hopeful.

He hasn’t felt like this since his mother left.

 

The first night in New York, in Derek’s opinion, goes brilliantly. The meal goes smooth and fast, time flying. Stiles and Laura hold most of the conversation, fill most of the silence, and it’s the first time Derek has ever heard Stiles talk so much, or so fast. Him and Laura click like slotting puzzle pieces, and somehow, even after only knowing her for less than five hours since they arrived in New York, Stiles has clearly managed to get under Laura’s skin. In fact, in the small period of time, Stiles has managed to get under _everyones_ skin.

Talia has excepted him like one of her own, looking at Stiles with a ray of affection and sweetness that she has only used on her own children. It make something in Derek’s chest glow, makes it feel strong and secure. It’s almost like a sense of security, knowing Stiles is safe and accepted. Derek doesn’t need any kind of emotional heighten to know Stiles is practically glowing compared to his normal grumpy, cloudy and sad exterior.

When they get back from the diner, it is well past ten at night. Talia quickly excuses herself for bed, as does Cora. Stiles hangs around in the kitchen for a few minutes, and when Laura goes out into the back garden, the younger boy comes up to Derek.

Instantly, he feels nervous. Stiles looks anxious and hesitant, like all the good that has happened in the last few hours has been unwrapped and Stiles is plagued once again by his fearing anxiety.

Stiles stares up at him, his neck craned up slightly because despite being all for his age, he still isn’t taller than Derek. "I, uh. . ." he starts, stammering and trailing off. His hands are winded together, restless and jittery. "T-thank you."

Derek blinds. He doesn’t know what to say, or what Stiles meant, but thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long before Stiles is talking again.

"Th-thank you for bringing me," he says, sounding breathless but determined. "I. . . I know I’ve been an ass to y-you and Cora, but it was really nice of you to bring me. So. . . thank you."

Derek takes a few moments to process what Stiles has said, and then he smiles, warm and soft. "You don’t need to thank me, Stiles. You’re family now, okay? You’re entitled to be here just as much as me and Cora. Plus, my mom and Laura really seem to love you— _especially_ Laura."

Stiles chuckles shyly at that, and Derek can’t help but be happy at the sound.

"I’m gonna—. . ." Stiles motions behind him to the stairs. "Bed. I’m g-gonna go to bed."

"All right," Derek smiles, "Good night, Stiles."

Stiles nods, flashing him a tiny smile that barely lasts a moment before its gone, and then he’s climbing the stairs and is out of sight.

Derek finds Laura in the back garden, sitting on the porch that overlooks the small expanse of grass and organised flower beds that Derek imagines his mother has spent countless hours planting and perfecting. Derek drops down in the garden chair next to his older sister, sighing happily when she hands him an open bottle of beer.

"Thanks," he murmurs, taking it and swallowing a large swig. He isn’t much of a drinker, especially not something so unhealthy as beer, despite the parties he attends. He only goes to them because he’s on the school basket ball team, and if he doesn’t go, he’s pretty sure Jackson and Danny would come to his house and _force_ the alcohol down his throat.

"No problem," Laura replies, greedily swigging her own.

A moment of silence passes, not awkward, but peaceful and soothing. The location of the house is far enough out of the main chaos of the city so they don’t hear the commotion of traffic and late parties exploring New York. The garden is dimly illuminated with the soft glow of the white moon hanging above, the sky clear from clouds and small sparkles of stars standing out along the black blanket of sky.

"I’ve missed this," Derek says, voice gentle and quiet.

Laura hums. "Me too." It’s not the same, just me and mom."

"It’s not the same without you," Derek replies, thinking dully about the house that is now too quiet without his older sisters loud music, or his mother pottering in the kitchen in a time when she should spend hours cooking and preparing dinner and treats. "Don’t get me wrong, Stiles and Claudia are lovely, but they’re not the same. Especially Claudia."

"Yeah, Cora’s told me a lot about her when we’ve phoned," Laura sighs, "She sounds like a bit of a bitch."

"Only a little," Derek says, smirking. It drops off his face slowly, and he drawls out a slow sigh, "She’s a good mother, she’s just a bit. . ."

"Clueless? Distracted? Oblivious?" Laura supplies.

Derek nods. "Exactly."

"Y’know. . ." Laura starts, slouching in her chair some more, "from the way you guys have described Claudia, I’m struggling to make the connections between her and Stiles."

Derek frowns, "What do you mean?"

"Well, all you two have really said about Claudia is how she’s a shit mother, she’s careless and doesn’t really have a fucking clue— or _interest_ , in what’s going on in her own son’s life. But, Stiles. . . he isn’t like that. I mean, I’ve only known him for less than a night, but he seems like a fucking angel from heaven compared to this Claudia."

Derek’s chest shakes in a mute chuckle, "Stiles is no angel at home."

"Would you be with a mother like that? I know I wouldn’t," Laura says, and Derek can almost pick out the true bitterness beneath the humour in her tone. "It’s really bothering me. Stiles seems so. . . fragile and terrified, but once you get to know him he seems like a really good kid, and I’m not just saying that because he has _great_ taste in TV shows. The way Stiles has been describe, by Cora mostly, I guess I was just expecting this smug asshole who was going to spend this entire week making everyone miserable. But, he’s not like that. He was just so. . . quiet and nervous at the beginning. I don’t get it. Once he started talking, he was like a kid on rocket fuel. He’s nothing like the kid Cora described. . ." Laura trails off from her monologue, turning to look at Derek with a face of seriousness. "Are you sure you brought the right kid with you?"

Derek snorts. "Yeah, he’s the right kid. He’s just different when he’s not at home, around claim and that town."

Laura’s face softens as she nods. "He seems damaged, Der. Something, other than his father dying and his parents splitting, has really affected him. I know losing a parent sucks, I’ve seen my own friends go through it, but it shouldn’t break you this much. Either Stiles isn’t getting the help he needs to get over his father’s death, or something else is really bothering him."

Derek swallows thickly, twirling the beer bottle top between his fingers. "I think it’s both," he admits.

Laura smiles at him sadly. "Well, it’s officially my mission this week to make Stiles has happy as possible before he goes home, _and_ to find out what is bothering him so I can kick whoever they are in the balls."

"What if it’s his mother who’s bothering him?"

"Then I’ll give her a nipple-cripple so hard it falls off."

Derek laughs until there’s tears in his eyes.

*****

Laura wakes up at the break of dawn, instantly deciding coffee is the top thing on the list. She’s gotten used to New York and the city’s dynamics, but she also finds it hard to sleep knowing that the commotion going on a few streets down from their house is the city.

Moving from Beacon Hills was a huge transition, a giant step in her recently disappeared teenage years. But, college has done her good. It’s given her a new entitlement to the city. She feels like she belongs here better than in the sleepy town of Beacon Hills. It’s still weird living away from Cora and Derek, and she feels horribly detached from them when they’re at home. She doesn’t miss Robert, though, and every time she thinks of the man, she is instantly reminded why she was so quick and keen to move away with their mother instead of stay under the same roof as that work-orientated-money-stealing-jackass.

Rolling out of bed, Laura pulls on her reindeer slippers that are over three Christmas’ old and a loose sweater. She exits the room with light footsteps, making her way down the stairs to the kitchen with her whole mind focused on coffee. She isn’t expecting to find Stiles, of all people, sitting on the back door step and the faint smell of nicotine wafting around him.

Laura isn’t sure if she is surprised, or intrigued. Maybe both.

"Hey, kiddo," she says, approaching him. She doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ whole body flinches like he’s been slapped (Laura does definitely not want to think too hard about _that_ ), but she shakes it off when Stiles looks over his shoulder and offers her a gentle smile.

"Morning," he replies, voice quiet and uncertain.

 _That won’t do_ , she decides.

She quickly pours herself a cup of coffee, finding the pot recently brewed so the contents are fresh and warm, before she joins Stiles at his side. She sits down on the door step next to him.

"You’re up early," she says, taking a sip and looking out across the frosted garden. The blades of grass are dusted white, sparking like diamonds in the rising sun. The air is cold and bitter, chilled but also still and calming.

Stiles nods, taking a breath of his cigarette. His eyes go animatedly wide, as if he’s suddenly remembering what he’s doing. He jerks the rolled paper out of his mouth, turning to Laura with a shaken, panicked expression that actually makes her feel guilty.

"I’m so sorry," he starts, "I didn’t— I can’t—"

"It’s fine," Laura assures him quickly, rushing to make him feel better. "You’re allowed to smoke. And, if you don’t mind, I’m going to have one too. Just don’t tell Talia."

Stiles stares at her like she just invented the sun, seeming struck and shocked when she pulls out a packed of straights from under a garden pot by the back door: her secret stash.

"Can I borrow your lighter?" She asks, placing one between her lips.

Her request seems to snap Stiles out of his daydream and he nods rapidly, passing her the metal Zippo lighter. "How long have you been smoking?" She asks when she hands it back.

"Too long," Stiles says, and Laura recognises the bland answer as a dodging-the-bullet technique.

Laura nods. "Join the club. Mom hates it, but she accepts it because she knows I only do it when I’m stressed."

"You’re stressed now?"

"College, buddy. Stresses the hell out of you. I’m surprised I haven’t gone grey yet from it."

"You’re still got time before that happens. Although, I’m pretty sure I saw a few at the back of your head."

It takes Laura a moment to catch Stiles’ humour, and when she does, she gapes at him.

"You little brat!" She laughs, shaking her head.

Stiles chuckles, the response small and short. Laura watches the invisible guards rebuild around him as he drags out another breath of white smoke.

"What’s Derek told you about me?" Stiles asks, meeting Laura’s eyes after a few moments of silence. His whiskey orbs are swirling with vulnerability, so open and _scared_ that it has Laura calculating her next words carefully.

"That you’ve been through a lot," Laura says, because that is true. She knows she can’t go into the depth about how Derek had spilled the beans on all of Stiles’ problems. If Stiles wants her to know, he’ll tell her himself. But until then, Laura is just going to have to wait. "He also said that your mother is. . . not the most supportive mother to every exist.

Stiles snorts, dropping his gaze to look at his sock-covered feet.

"Y’got that right," Stiles sighs, "I’m guessing you’ve got the impression that I’m a bit of an asshole."

Laura frowns. "Not at all," she nudges his shoulder, flashing him a small smirk when he looks up at her, "But, there’s nothing wrong with being a bit of an asshole sometimes."

Stiles scoffs, "I’m an asshole _all the time_."

"No, you’re not," Laura says, her voice stern because she isn’t going to keep listening to his self-discriminating shit. Stiles is too good for that, and no one his age should hate themselves so much. "You use anger and sarcasm as a barrier. It’s your defence mechanism. That’s okay, we all have one. When I’m scared or hurt, I’m a major asshole too."

Stiles smiles, but he stays silent. He takes another drag of his cigarette, and Laura feels a pang of something awful in her chest.

"Seriously, Stiles," she goes on, capturing his attention like a focusing camera lens. "You don’t have to pretend here. Me and Talia adore you already, okay? So if something is wrong, or if something is bothering you, you can tell us. Or tell Derek, or even Cora. You don’t have to keep everything bottled up here."

"But. . . you’ve known me less than a day."

"And you’re already proved your awesomeness!"

Stiles drops his head, shoulders tensing. "I had a panic attack."

Laura resists the urge to reach out and comfort him.

"It’s been overwhelming, coming here. It was completely understandable. No one was annoyed at you, or amused. We were worried, Stiles. We were worried about you."

"Why?"

The single word is quiet and fragile like a thin sheet of glass. It hangs heavy in the air.

"Because, you seem like a pretty cool kid," Laura smiles, hoping it’s as warm and as gentle as she hopes and aims for. "Too cool to be this sad."

"Do you really care?"  
"Of course," Laura emphasises the words as she much as she can, trying to show how true they really are. "I care about you as much as I care about Derek and Cora. You’re family, Stiles, and you’re stuck with us, whether you like it or not."

Stiles smiles, small, barely a twitch of his lips. He’s looking down still, but Laura stays quiet, because she has the feeling her words are being processed, as if Stiles is picking apart each word she said to add up what they mean.

It’s quiet for a few minutes before Stiles finally speaks again.

"There’s this boy," he begins, and Laura can hear the wave in his voice. He’s nervous. "I met him at a party and we. . . dated."

Laura nods. Relationship issues, she can handle that.

"Okay," she says simply. She doesn’t want to press or force him, instead allowing Stiles to come out of his shell on his own.

"It was perfect," Stiles whispers, and Laura feels her heart truly _ache_. Stiles has this look in his eye, distant and hazed, as if he’s physically seeing them together. "He was perfect, but then he. . . we. . . broke up."

Laura nods again, stubbing out her dead cigarette bud. "Did he cheat on you?"

Stiles stiffens sharply, muscles coiling up so fast it’s like a triggered spring. Laura resists the urge to react.

"Not exactly," he replies slowly, and Laura has the feeling she isn’t going to like what comes out of his mouth next.

"Did he break up with you?" She asks when Stiles stays quiet.

"Something. . . happened," Stiles says, words slow and careful, as if he’s nervous to say the words. "And I haven’t spoken to him since. I— I’m. . . scared."

Laura breaths deeply through her nose. "Scared of _him?"_ She asks. "Has he. . . did he hurt you?"

Hell, she is going to march back to Beacon Hills and beat this guy senseless if he’s hurt Stiles in anyway. Laura hadn’t realised she’d gotten so defensive until she notices the concerned look on Stiles’ face.

"Not physically," he says, "but. . ."

Laura doesn’t want to push Stiles, or pressure him. She can visibly see his verbal struggle with forming the right words to describe what happened, but she’s getting worried.

"Stiles," she begins, turning herself fully so she’s almost totally facing him. "You can tell me."

She hopes her words give Stiles as much comfort as possible, and it seems to work some as Stiles’ shoulders eventually begin to slouch, losing the painfully tight tension between the jutting bones. She grabs onto his bony hands, feeling the cool skin against hers.

"You can trust me," she says, squeezing his hand in hers. She’s looking directly a him, their eyes locked and gaze intense.

Stiles is silent for over a minute, dragging to the empty air. He licks his lips, diverting his eyes nervously.

"It was. . . it was his friend who did something," Stiles begins, and Laura doesn’t like the sound of the ominous 'something', but she also doesn’t interrupt. "And I don’t know if he even had anything to do with it."

"And you haven’t spoken to him about it?" Laura clarifies, and Stiles nods his head. "And, has he been trying to contact _you?"_ Stiles nods again. "Okay. . . Do you want my honest opinion?"

Stiles nods after a long moment of clear mental battling.

"I think you should hear him out," Laura says, trying to be clear and gentle. "Don’t meet with him, or trust him, or be with him yet. If you aren’t one hundred percent sure he had something to do with it, then just listen to what he has to say," Laura pauses, trying to find the right words to say that won’t seem demanding or insensitive. Stiles is obviously fragile, in a contorted position, and the last thing he needs is Laura ruining the trust they have built by forcing him or scaring him even more. "If this guy is trying, it makes me think he’s got a reason to keep fighting for you. If he is truly guilty, he would have given up by now. How long has it been seen since. . . since _this_ all happened?"

"Less than a week ago," Stiles admits.

Laura nods. "Okay. He’s had plenty of time to give up, and he hasn’t. Phone him— when you’re ready— and listen to what he says. You don’t have to say anything back, you don’t have to make any instant decisions. Hell, you don’t have to be or even _see_ him again. But, this uncertainty is going to eat you alive, and you have every right to know the truth."

Stiles blinks a few times, evidently shocked at the speech. Laura has surprised herself, unaware she could give such improvising advice like that.

"I—. . ." Stiles begins, but quickly clamps his mouth shut. He licks his lips a few times, swallowing audibly. "T-thank you, Laura." He says finally, the word falling him his mouth softly.

Laura grins, giving his hand another reassuring squeeze. "Anytime. If this guy and his friend keep giving you trouble, give me a call and I’ll come ’n sort the out for you."

Stiles laughs, breathless and watery. He’s smiling too, and something about it makes Laura feel a strong sense of self-accomplishment.

The sound of pounding footsteps coming down the stairs has Laura and Stiles looking back into the house.

"Morning, brother," Laura greets when Derek enters, looking bed-ridden and half asleep.

Derek grunts at her in response, then noticing Stiles beside her.

"Morning, Stiles," he says, and Laura squawks loudly.

"Wheres my 'good morning'?" She protests, and Stiles laughs beside her. She gets to her feet grabbing her empty mug with a huff.

A few minutes later, Talia and Cora join them all in the kitchen. Laura, Derek and Cora have set themselves at the breakfast bar, watching their mother fly around the kitchen making pancakes. Stiles, who is still sitting by the backdoor step, but is now sitting sideways with his back against one side of the doorframe and facing the room. When Laura looks behind at him, he’s smiling slightly, a slight up-quirk of his lips.

"So, what’s the plan for today?" Cora asks, sipping her mug of steaming hot hot chocolate.

"I was thinking we could maybe explore Brooklyn," Laura suggests. "I’ve only ever been a few times since we moved here, so I figured it’d be fun to look around together."

Talia nods, though her back is to the room. "Sounds good," she say. "How about you three do that, and me and Cora go into the city. I was hoping we could look around for things for your birthday."

Cora lights up at the suggestion, sitting up straighter. "Yes! Shopping in New York!?"

"Yes, love, "Talia laughs lightly. "Laura, you’ll be in-charge of Derek and Stiles. Do _not_ lose them!"

Laura rolls her eyes. "Yes, mother."

Within the next ten minutes, Talia has the dining table stacked with pancakes, cereal boxes, and various cartoons of different juices. There’s toast, a brewed pot of coffee, and a range of breakfast biscuits. She may have gone a little overboard, but it has been a long time since they had any other company like this, so Laura doesn’t mention it.

When Stiles joins the table, after shutting the backdoor because it’s still winter, he seems to be coiled with anxiety.

"Only eat what you want, Stiles," Talia says, touching his arm in a comforting gesture. The few words seem to calm Stiles somewhat, and he no longer looks like a deer in headlights being interrogated.

*****

Stiles never thought he’d have the chance to step foot in Brooklyn city, let alone _explore_ it.

It’s a bit of a haze to begin, he’s in the stage of not actually being able to believe he’s there. He keeps stopping to spin in circles, staring and soaking up what he sees as if his mind is actually storing it all away. He’s amazed, mesmerised, and down right buzzing to be walking around Brooklyn city.

Laura is a good tour guide, too. After their chat earlier that morning that had Stiles moments away from panicking - he still doesn’t know why he told Laura almost everything, but he certainly doesn’t regret it now. Laura has been clinging to his side since, close and protective, but also not patronising or pressuring. She’s loud and bubbly, snarky and witty to every fault. Stiles likes her, and every time she cracks a joke or insults Derek, it makes him wish all over again that this is more than just a short vacation.

They start off the day by just wandering around, up and down the boulevards. Stiles takes photos on his phone, storing them away for later art inspiration. He has his sketchbook in his rucksack and a handful of pencils, but there aren’t any opportunities to sit on a bench and just _draw_ for fifteen minutes. Therefore, the pictures will have to do.

They walk for hours, sit seeing and being 'basic tourists' (as Laura calls them). They do a small amount of shopping - Laura is the only one who actually buys anything - but it’s still fun. Laura makes them all try on different hats in a store, take selfies and laughs when Derek puts on a full head hat with tears and tells him he look like a grumpy bunny.

By lunch time, Laura and Derek are starved, the prior moaning loudly and unashamed about her stomachs needs. Stiles doesn’t want to say it out loud, a deep down fear inside him coiling at the idea of admitting it making it true, but he’s actually feeling quite peckish. He’s more than glad when Laura chooses a hole-in-the-wall coffee cafe with a large window booth and an out-going menu. Laura and Derek order complicated coffees, orders too long and complex for Stiles to even remember. They all got a muffin each, and Stiles goes with a simple black coffee - cautious of the prices.

"We’ll take a dish of fries too, thanks!" Laura calls after the waitress, who nods and flashes a friendly smile. She flicks back her brown hair over her shoulder, tilting forward in her chair so she’s leaning on her elbows, facing across the table at the two boys. "So, what’d you think so far?"

"It’s too busy," Derek grunts.

Laura laughs loudly. "Yes, Derek, it is a city. That means it has a larger population than basic Beacon Hills."

Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles smiles fondly.

"I don’t like tourists."

"Derek. . . _you’re_ a tourist!"

"Derek just doesn’t like people."

Laura laughs at Stiles’ add-in, pointing at him and cackling.

Derek rolls his eyes again. "I still think there’s too many people."

"That’s because you’re antisocial, Der-Bear. No surprises there," Laura snarks, turning to Stiles. "What about you, kid? Like it?"

"A lot," Stiles nods.

Laura grins like he’s personally complimented her.

Their food and coffee arrive shortly, and it isn’t long before Laura and Derek find themselves in an a rather heated discussion about Derek’s college choices. Stiles tunes out, nibbling on small pickings of his muffin and gazing out the window beside him.

Beyond the glass, Stiles watches the world pass by in a blur of bodies and bags. It’s calming to watch, just seeing people pass, going on about their days. Stiles wonders what they’re doing, where they’re going, who they’re going to see.

After a while, Stiles pulls a _Biro_ pen out of his rucksack that he’s been carrying around, wanting to do something with his hands but not wanting to get out his sketchbook. He grabs the napkin that came with his muffin, brushing off the crumbs. He draws the life outside the window in a rushed, scribbly sketch, capturing the distant buildings, pavements, plants and trees. He draws the people, a blur of moving cars, the shop fronts opposite the busy road.

Apparently, his attempt to be discrete is weak, because he’s barely finished when Laura exclaims, Oh my go—! Stiles!"

His head snaps up as if a gun has been fired inside the cafe, eyes wide and hands frozen.

Laura is grinning.

"I didn’t know you could draw!" She says, shifting in the booth so she’s closer to him and leans further across the table."It’s really good. _You’re_ really good."

Stiles feels his cheeks burn. "Oh, it’s. . . i-it’s nothing. Really. I—"

Laura silence him with a raised hand. "It’s good, Stiles. Take the compliment, because I mean it."

Stiles smiles, heart hammering. His puts the pen down, not drawing anymore because he can feel his hands trembling. His art is like a second life, something he only shows and shares with those he trusts. Scott and Lydia have seen his art, so has his mother. Theo has too, something Stiles had revealed to the boy without intentions. It just happened. The memories of Theo complimenting Stiles’ work has the boy’s chest aching like he’s been physically punched.

"Thank you," he mutters quietly, hoping it masks the sudden change in his mood.

Laura smiles, none the less, and something about it makes Stiles feel safe again.

When they get to the house hours later, Stiles finds himself sitting on the back door step, sketchbook in his lap. He fills his paper with a soft, detailed portrait of Laura. The drawing is from memory, a side angel he remembers from the early morning when she’d smoked beside him. He uses charcoal sticks, brushing streaks of smoke coming from the cigarette.

It’s half finished when he goes to bed that night, but Stiles is determined to finish it and give it to Laura before they leave, as a thank you present for giving him so much advice and kindness.

 

The rest of the week goes as positively as the beginning. They explore the wonders of New York, searching Manhattan and Brooklyn, trying new foods and ridiculously priced coffees. Stiles repeatedly brings up the fact that he has no way of paying the Hale’s back for any of this, and that they shouldn’t be spending so much money on him, but they always reply with the same answer:

"It’s no worry," they say. "You’re family, Stiles."

_You’re family. You’re family. You’re family. Family. Familyfamilyfamilyfamily—_

It’s strange, to say the least. Stiles has been so quickly accepted under Talia’s wing, protected and cared for like he is her own son. Every aspect of the holiday makes Stiles resent the idea of going home. He doesn’t want to go back to that town, to that house with Robert and his mother constantly breathing down his neck. He doesn’t want to go back to throwing up every meal, or feeling paranoid and scared at every sound and shadow. He doesn’t want to be miserable, or depressed, or feel the constant weight on his shoulders.

He knows it’s going to change. He knows the moment he steps foot in Beacon Hills again, all the good they have done will become unwrapped like a loose bandage.

On the last night of their holiday, Stiles jolts away in a cold sweat and a shrill scream on the tip of his tongue. Haunting images of his fathers bloody body and pained eyes flash in his mind, his body still half-asleep and trapped in the nightmare that has forced him awake. His eyes sting with un-shed tears, lungs burning from the lack of oxygen they’re willing to take in. His chest is tight and unmoving, ribs frozen and constricting.

His hands are moving unconsciously, fumbling for something on the nightstand. The illuminated screen of his phone doesn’t even register in his mind until suddenly, he realises he’s ringing someone.

The realisation comes too late, when a voice suddenly comes through, small and digitalised, but familiar enough to make Stiles’ breath come to a stop all together.

"Stiles?"

Its Theo.

He called _Theo_.

"Stiles? Is everything okay?"

Stiles can’t breath. His mind is a fog, thoughts scattered like shattered glass. He’s frozen, body stiff and aching. He’s exhausted, confused and half-groggy. He feels hungover, with the bittersweet lack of drinking.

Theo’s voice is still coming through, bellowing in Stiles’ ear like a horn.

"Stiles! Stiles, listen to me. You need to calm down. Okay? Breath, Stiles. Breath in, and hold it. Hold it for a second and then let it out. Control it, Stiles. Take control. You can do it, I know you can!"

The words, though rushed and frantic, help somewhat. Stiles doesn’t know if it is the shock that he’s phoned Theo _fucking_ Raeken, or the fact that it is Theo’s voice on the other side of the line that helps him calm down. Regardless, it works, because within minutes the panicked, strained wheezes have changed from sounding like a dying animal to a marathon runner. He’s left panting softly, chest rising and falling quickly but with purpose. His heart is still racing, body wracked with tremors, but at least he can breath.

"Stiles?" Theo asks after a beat. The sudden appearance of his voice has Stiles almost spiralling back into the slowly descending mist of panic. It’s been so long since he’d phoned him, heard his voice in the present and not in a recorded, old voicemail.

 _It’s only been a week_ , Stiles reminds himself. _It hasn’t been_ that _long._

"Are you okay?"

Stiles doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know _how._ Words are suddenly foreign, talking is a breathless task. What does he say? How does he answer that when he _obviously_ isn’t fine?

"Stiles, you don’t have to talk, okay? Just hear me out. Please."Theo must take Stiles’ silence as permission, because barely a soundless beat passes before he continues, "I’m sorry. I’m so, _so_ sorry, Stiles. I know you don’t believe me, and I probably can’t make you— at least not through the phone. I don’t know what happened that night, or what went on that made you run away. I admit, I had something planned with Donovan, but whatever he did with you, that wasn’t it. Okay? I don’t know what he did, Stiles, but I had nothing to do with it. He’s my friend, but I have no idea what he’s done to you. I just want you to know that I. . . I’m not going to stop trying to talk to you. You mean the world to me, Stiles. What we had, I want it back. I want _you_ back. I. . . I miss you. I miss you so damn much."

Tears roll down Stiles’ cheeks. He’s breathless again, but not in the tangles of panic. He’s overwhelmed, confused and scared. A sob escapes his lips. He tries to swallow it back, but he can’t. It bubbles out of him like a choke, small and soft, but evidently audible.

"I’m so sorry, Stiles," Theo says again, and Stiles crumbles.

He cries, hard and loud. He’s ashamed and embarrassed, skin tingling like Donovan’s hands are on him again. Theo is silent on the other end now, and Stiles doesn’t know what to say because he is _so torn_. He wants to silent Theo, to cut him off and never speak to him again. He wants to move on, to grow on without him and forget about him completely. But he can’t. He just. . . _can’t._ He feels like he’s constantly suffocating without the older boy, like Theo is his only oxygen. Everything had been clearer when Stiles was with him, the air easier to breath, life easier to live. He woke up in the morning and had a reason to roll out of bed because he would see Theo, he would feel alive, he would have a purpose.

He misses that. He misses it so much, it physically hurts like a constant ache in his chest.

Would it be bad to talk to Theo? Would it make him weak? Pathetic?

Stiles ends the call with a shaky thumb to the _END_ button. The moment the call cuts off, he regrets it. He wants to hear Theo’s voice again. He wants to feel Theo, to lay in his arms, to feel his hot breath of the back of his neck when they cuddled in his bed. He wants to lay on the older boys roof, veins and body buzzing with Theo’s stuff, high as a kite and _so fucking happy_. He wants to be in bed again, sketchpad in his lap and peacefully drawing Theo’s sleeping face beside him.

Stiles tucks himself back into the bed and presses one of the pillows against his back, using it as a form of comfort. He falls asleep with tear tracks on his cheeks and his phone tucked in his hand.

 

Going home is one of the hardest tasks Stiles has had to physically do in a long time. He hugs Laura and Talia various times between leaving the house and going through the airport terminal. He wants to cry when they leave, because he doesn’t want to go. It’s been like a dream, being in new York, being somewhere small and safe in Talia’s home with people who care and are affectionate. Stiles knows he’s being unreasonable, because even if he excludes his mother, he still has people back in Beacon Hills how care about him - like Scott and Lydia. But Beacon Hills is more dark than bright, the streets roaming with people like Jackson and Donovan and Theo. The memories of his father are too raw there, his nightmares coming to life around him.

He doesn’t want to go home, but he also doesn’t have a choice.

Stiles doesn’t sleep on the trip back. He’s tired, but he can’t sleep. He’s a ball of nervous energy, worse than on the way over, but thankfully Cora and Derek are either too polite or too oblivious to mention it.

He tries to read a book he through with him - (he’s reading _The Great Gatsby_ ) - but he can’t focus on the words. He gets through a page before he realises none of the words have gone in and just slams it shut angrily.

Stiles is more than surprised to find his mother and Robert waiting for them at the airport when they land. Stiles is so shocked to see them standing there that he almost trips over his own feet, his feet becoming rooted to the floor. Claudia runs to them, smiling and pulling them all in for crushing hugs.

"I missed you all so much!" She says, holding Stiles by his face, palms cupping his cheeks as she looks over him, as if to find if anything is different. She smiles, bright and wide, and Stiles almost feels happy at the sight. Almost. "Did you have a good time?"

Stiles nods. He’s not going to lie to her. "It was really good."

His eyes catch something white and glistening when his mother pulls her hands away, and he feels his shoulders stiffen when he clearly sees it.

"Mom, is that. . ." he begins, but his throat closes up like a fly-trap. He’s suddenly light headed. His stomach twists nauseously, the food Talia had encouraged him to eat before they left swimming uncomfortably.

"Surprise!" Claudia exclaims, beaming, and raising her hand to show the shining silver ring. "We’re getting married!"

 

_— tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i forget to mention the bombshell at the end? oops... *hides under blankets*


	10. take it easy

****"Tell me, Stiles," Marin Morrell begins, "When do you think this all started?"

She’s sitting across from him, her straight black hair hanging on either side of her face with perfect symmetry, making her look thing and long. She’s got a notepad in her lap, one leg crossed over the other, her thin eyes staring at Stiles, calculating him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when do you remember the first time you felt lonely, isolated, detached," Morrell lists, "When did it all begin? What began it?"

Stiles licks his lips. He doesn’t want to be here, but it’s better than being at the mansion.

"My mother cheating on my father. She. . . it ruined everything. She broke my father. She made the strongest man I ever knew cry."

"What’s wrong with a man crying?"

"Nothing. But my father never cried, and for her to hurt him so much that he broke down. . . it made me angry."

"So, you started acting out."

Stiles narrows his eyes. "Define 'acting out'."

"Rebellious behaviour," Dr Morrell replies carefully.

Stiles leans back in his chair. The room is cool, but it feels freezing to Stiles. He’s tense, muscles torte and stiff. He’s bundled up in three hoodies and a jacket, but still, the cold chill of the room bites his skin bitterly.

"Did you bring your sketchpad, Stiles?"

Stiles nods, reaching down to pick it up where it’s leaning up against the legs of his chair. He passes over the black and battered book and Morrell takes it with a small smile, placing it closed in her lap on top of her own notebook.

"Do you mind if I look through it?"

"I wouldn’t have brought it if I minded," Stiles snarks. "Why do you even want to see it?"

"I enjoy looking at art," Morrell replies simply. "Also, you are my client, and I want to know if there is anything in here that could possibly link to your anger and frustration."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. At least she’s honest.

"While I’m looking, I have a task for you," Morrell says. "Use the paper and pens on the table to draw me how you feel. Transfer your feelings into a drawing, or an image, or a symbol. Making your feelings visual. _Show_ me how you feel."

Stiles blinks as Morrell finishes speaking and opens the sketch book. She flips through the pages silently, and after a few moments of staring, Stiles finally moves to sit on the floor, his skinny legs crossed like a child. He takes the black felt-tip and draws.

"I must say," Morrell starts after a long stretch of silence. "These are quite incredible. You have a talent, Mr Stilinski."

Stiles stiffens at the name and praise, forcing himself to ignore it as he continues to draw his 'feelings'.

Its another five minutes of silence before Stiles finishes and Morrell finally looks up. She disguises her surprise at his quick drawing professionally.

"Care yo explain?" She says, placing his sketchbook down gently in her lap, cover closed and leans forward to get a better look at the page Stiles has drawn on.

He looks down at the sheet he has produced.

He’s coloured the entire sheet black.

"It’s how I feel."

"What does it symbolise, Stiles?" She presses. "What do you feel?"

"Empty, Stiles answers, voice small and quiet.He hates how child-like he sounds. He _pathetic_. "I feel dark, like a void."

 

Stiles sits up with a gasp, a scream caught in his throat. He’s drenched in cold sweat, tremors vibrating through his frail body as he tries blinks back the tears already cascading down his cheeks.

Flashes of his nightmare are scorched behind his eyes, popping up like terrifying jack-in-the-boxes. He breaths heavy and rushed, lungs constricted. He bites his lip to silence the sobs, willing himself to be quiet because the last thing he wants to do, is wake someone up.

His racing heart begins to slow, chest finally expanding so the cool air of the bedroom can rush in, feeding his oxygen-starved lungs. His throat is sore, eyes itchy from his tears. He wipes them furiously, looking down at the time on his phone: **3:56 AM**.

Stiles is beyond thankful for the creation of the Christmas break, otherwise the concept of going to school in a few hours would have surely broken him down into sobs. He throws back the covers on his bed, too shaken to go back to sleep. He changes his sweat-soaked t-shirt for a dry one, wishing he was in his old home so he could shower and wash the nightmare and grime away. He can’t do it here though, as someone will wake up and he doesn’t have the energy to think of an excuse.

Stiles isn’t ready to speak to his mother yet. It’s been two days since they got back from New York. Two days since she had announced the last thing Stiles had wanted to happen, and he’s been avoiding her ever since. He’s avoided Robert too, and Derek, and Cora - though they have been harder to avoid since they have been purposely seeking him out. Since the trip to New York, the two Hale siblings have taken it upon themselves to find out regularly if Stiles is okay. While it’s nice that someone cares, Stiles has been really seeking sometime alone.

He managed to drag out his therapy session the day before and took his time walking home to make sure his mother and Robert had left for their dinner out by the time he made it back to the Hale house.

Stiles hasn’t forgiven his mother for what she has done. He _can’t_. By marrying Robert, it doesn’t just mean she’s moved on, but it means she _accepted_ what’s happened and has let it go. She hasn’t just abandoned his fathers death, she’s abandoned her son. She’s abandoned _Stiles_.

Stiles isn’t ready to accept that his father is gone. He isn’t ready for a large celebration and a new family- a new _dad_. The whole idea makes him feel sick to his stomach.

Stiles grabs his sketchbook and pencils after he’s slung on a thick sweatshirt, the drying sweat on his skin adding a chill. He slips on a pair of thick, over-sized wool sock that Scott given to him for Christmas, before he creeps out the bedroom door.

He moves silently through the house, socked feet soundless on the marble floor.

He goes to the library, inching open the door. He finished _The Great Gatsby_ the night before, but he isn’t planning on reading now. The room is pitch black, even the glow of the still-hanging moon is blocked out by the ever-closed curtains. Stiles takes his seat on the armchair he always takes residence on, opening his sketchbook and grabbing his pencils.

He loses himself in his drawing, brain shutting down for once and thoughts finally muting. The pencil led stretches against the paper, leaving dark, bold lines on the bright white. He sketches, hand jerking as he leaves pencil marks on the fine sheet.

He draws the eyes from memory, lightly shading the paleness of them. He captures the curve of his lips, the delicate feathers of his eyelashes, the swoop of his cheekbones. He shades the shadow of his jawline, the different tones in his hair. He draws Theo.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until the page is suddenly smudged as a fat tear drop lands on the paper, splattering amongst the dark pencil. The damn holding the waterworks back breaks, crashing like a tidal wave. The tears come and don’t stop. His chest feels tight, lips shaking as he clamps his eyes shut to stop himself from crying, from crying over _Theo._

_God, you are such an idiot. You’re foolish. pathetic. Theo never loved you. He will never love you._

The voice in his head is screaming so loud, shrilling and glass-shattering. He launches to his feet, throwing the sketchpad across the room. He cries, hands covering his mouth to muffle the sobs that feel like they are being ripped from his throat.

He’s a shaking heap on the floor. He’s breathless and trembling. The book across the room is splayed open, the drawing of Theo on show.

He crawls on the floor, slamming the book shut and kicking it further away rom him.

It’s a long time before he stops crying.

 

He reads _The Perks of Being a Wallflower_ in following day when he spends the whole time tucked in the corner in the library. His mother is out with Robert so he’s safe from being disturbed. He reads the whole book in one day, and his eyes are throbbing when he goes to bed that night.

 

Stiles spends a whole day in bed, curled up under the sweltering layers of blankets. He hears his door open around lunch time, but he assumes it was Derek or Cora, as it shuts moments later and doesn’t open again. If it was his mother, he would have got an ear full.

He’s reminded again to wonder when and why the Hale siblings started to care. 

 

"What are you guys doing here?" Stiles asks, holding the front door open.

"You weren’t answering your phone," Scott replies.

Stiles pulls his phone out of his pocket, finding three missed calls from Scott and five unread texts from Lydia.

"Oh," he murmurs quietly. "Sorry, must’ve not heard."

Lydia purses her lips while Scott slumps slightly, looking sad.

"Can we come in?" Lydia asks.

"Oh. Uh, y-yeah," Stiles stammers, opening the door further.

Scott and Lydia walk in with widening eyes - it’s their first time inside the Hale house. Stiles isn’t surprised by this, it’s like a palace to anyone with hungry eyes.

Stiles stands stiffly by the door after he closes it, shifting from foot to foot. He plays with the chewed and battered sleeve of his jumper.

"What’s going on with you, Stiles?" Lydia asks. She sounds like a concerned mother, but also annoyed. Her face is stoney, telling Stiles he has no way of lying his way out of this one.

"I. . ." Stiles starts. What is he meant to say? He swallows thickly, looking down at his feet. "I don’t think I know anymore."

His voice is so quiet and small it makes Stiles want to literally bash his head against the marble floor. He hates how weak and fragile he sounds, how close he is to tears after only uttering six short words.

"Stiles," Scott says, and Stiles looks up slowly. Scott’s eyes are soft and warm, puppy-like and understanding. "We know about the therapy."

Stiles feels his stomach plummet. He hasn’t told anyone about that. He didn’t want anyone to know about that.

"I. . ." Stiles starts again. "I didn’t— you weren’t meant to—"

"Hey," Scott interrupts, suddenly standing in front of him, shushing him gently. Warm hands hold Stiles by the shoulders. "It’s okay, Stiles."

"I don’t know if it’s working," Stiles whispers, tears filling his eyes. His vision blurs and he can’t blink them away. "I don’t know if anything is working anymore."

The sob that escapes him is completely unavoidable, as they all have been recently. The tears spill freely as Scott pulls him into his chest, warm arms wrapping around him. Stiles hugs back, shaking uncontrollably as he sobs and cries. His chest aches, his mind is tired. He’s just _so tired_.

He wants to rewind a year, go back to when his parents were together, when his father was still alive. When he hadn’t touched a cigarette or a blade, when he could ear full meals without feeling nauseous at the swell of his stomach or victimised by the voiced in his head. He wants to go back to when everything was okay, and the only thing he had to cry about was how much of a dick Jackson would act in gym class.

"You’re okay," Scott whispers into his hair, and Stiles wants to laugh at how that is complete _bullshit._ Instead, he just cries harder, the sobs being punched out of his aching lungs. Do his lungs ever _not_ ache? "You’re okay, Stiles. Everything’s gonna be okay."

A warm, smaller hand touches his shoulder, and Stiles knows Lydia is there, comforting him silently.

Stiles doesn’t know how long it takes him to calm down, but he’s thankful when he does. Scott doesn’t pull away immediately, his arms enveloped around Stiles reassuringly. Stiles hasn’t hugged someone like this since they were in New York with Talia and Laura, and while that was only five days ago, it feels like a lifetime for Stiles.

The hug feels good.

It feels like _home_.

When Scott does pull away, he doesn’t let go completely. He pulls Stiles into his side so Lydia can sweep in, wiping his cheeks with her soft hands.

She smiles gently. "We know you’re not okay, and we know you haven’t been for a long time. But, please, let us help you, Stiles. We can help you, even if it’s only small. Just let us _be there_. Don’t shut us out."

Stiles nods, clenching his jaw to hold back more tills that threaten to spill. He feels like all he does anymore is cry.

Lydia smiles again, hand cupping his cheek gently. She drops a kiss against his forehead, pulling back to look at him again with such motherly adoration that Stiles’ heart physically throbs.

"Well," Scott starts, "I’ve got nothing to do all afternoon, so do you want me to stay?"

"What will we do?" Stiles asks, voice hoarse from crying.

Scott smiles above him. "I still haven’t seen _Star Wars_ yet."

Stiles wretches away from him, gaping, " _Any_ of them?"

"Nope."

"Blasphemy!" Stiles exclaims, grabbing Scott by the hand and dragging him into the lounge area.

Lydia laughs behind them, but she makes no move to follow them.

Stiles looks over his shoulder from where he’s now sitting on the couch. "Lydia?"

"I’m not staying," she says.

Stiles frowns. "What? Why?"

"Tea date with Mama," she replies. She finally makes her way to the couch and lands a gentle kiss on his forehead, running her fingers through his unruly hair. "I’ll see you later, okay?"

Stiles nods, managing a smile before she turns and leaves.

Outside, Lydia walks down the mansion steps just as Derek’s Camaro pulls up. She diverts her path and strides confidently over to the park car. She can see Derek’s concerned expression through the windshield and watches as he climbs out quickly, practically scrambling out the door.

"Everything okay?" He asks, eyes flicking up to the house before back to Lydia, his voice dripping with worry.

"Do you care about Stiles?" Lydia asks.

Derek looks shocked by the question.

"Yes. Of course I do. Has something—"

"Protect him, Derek," Lydia interrupts unapologetically. "He needs help, and everyone knows he’s not going to get it from his mother."

Derek gapes, mouth lax before he snaps it shut.

He nods. "Of course. I’m trying. . . I want to help."

Lydia nods. "Good. Scott’s with him now. You need to be there when he’s not."

And with that, Lydia leaves without another word. Her car spits dust when she speeds down the dirt track, Derek standing in the driveway long after she’s gone.

 

The Christmas holidays are over before Stiles knows it, and when Monday comes, he is more anxiety than human.

He’s up earlier than his alarm, before the sun has even began to rise. He makes his way downstairs, footsteps silent on the marble floor, and heads into the library, just like he has done every morning during the vacation.

Time flows like a gracious eagle and before Stiles knows it, there’s a knocking at the library door.

He looks up from where he’s curled up in the old reading chair, legs thrown over the arm and his break resting against the other. He closes the old copy of _Birdsong_ just as the door opens.

His mother enters, looking flustered and annoyed.

"I’ve been looking for you everywhere," she says.

"I’ve been here," Stiles replies, mustering a small shrug. He stands from the chair, placing the book on a pile by the chair for later.

Claudia sighs heavily through her nose.

"You have fifteen minutes to get ready for school," she practically _growls_ , watching Stiles like a hawk as he grabs his phone from the floor. "Why are you in here?"

"Couldn’t sleep," he murmurs, shrugging again. "Had nothing else to do."

He doesn’t wait to hear his mothers reply before he’s walking past her and out of the room. He spares a short glance into the kitchen as he breezes past, spotting the Hale’s sitting at the dining table.

He runs upstairs, going back into his bedroom where he throws on a pair of skinny black jeans and two hoodies. First day back at school after everything that’s happened - so he needs to be comfy.

And so much _has_ happened.

Before the break, Stiles had been happier than he had been in a long time. He was with Theo, spending his nights and days with the older boy who made Stiles feel alive. He’d lay on Theo’s roof during the day, smoking countless cigarettes and popping pills like candy, giggling at everything he thought of. He’d lay in bed at night, Theo’s larger body pressed against his back, curled around him like a protective blanket.

And then, he’d gone out on New Years to a party with Theo’s friends. He woke up disorientated, confused and naked, a stranger in the same bed imply that the worst had happened.

Stiles doesn’t know if he’s ready to face the music of high school again. His only comfort being that Theo and Donovan don’t go to Beacon Hills High.

He grabs his rucksack before exiting the room again. He hastily brushes his teeth in the bathroom before going back downstairs.

Claudia stands at the bottom of the stairs.

"Derek’s waiting in the cars for you," she says.

"I’ll walk," Stiles replies, not looking at her and breezing straight past on jelly-legs.

"It’s January, Stiles," Claudia replies, tone strained. "School is on the other side of town."

"I said, I’ll walk," Stiles snaps. He flings open the front door and storms out.

He doesn’t look at Derek or Cora, whom are both standing beside the Camaro. He keeps his head down as he quickly rounds the house porch and heads into the woods.

By the time he gets to school, he’s freezing so hard his legs are quaking and he’s pretty sure he has icicles dangling from his nostrils. His hands, though stuffed in his jacket pockets, have fine tremors running through them from the biting cold of the January air. He makes headway to his locker with just five minutes before the bell rings fo first period - the chill sinking into his bones urged him to walk as fast as he could to the school, making it here in record time.

He see’s Derek talking to Lydia and Scott by the doors, so he quickly ducks into a crowd and manages to pass them without being seen. He’s so cold and nervous for the day that he doesn’t even think to wonder what the hell they could be talking about.

He practically runs to his locker, hands shaking so much he can’t do his locker combination. His fingers are stiff from the cold, fumbling like their slick with butter, and he’s a moment away from bursting into tears when something touches his shoulder.

He jumps, spinning around so fast on his weak legs that he stumbles backwards and slams his shoulder blade painfully against the bulky padlock. He gasps, pain flaring up, but the panic in his chest is enough to crush it.

"Woah," Isaac says, taking a step back and throwing his hands up. "Calm down there, buddy. I didn’t mind to scare you."

 _That’s a first,_ Stiles thinks bitterly.

"Isaac," he whispers, standing up straighter and ignoring the twinges of pain in his shoulder and spine. _Thats going to make one hell of a bruise,_ he realises.

"Looks like Christmas didn’t do you much good. You look like shit," he says, almost instantly, he looks like he regrets the words and the nonchalant tone.

"Thanks."

"I didn’t. . . mean it like that," Isaac replies lamely. He swallows audibly, shifting from foot to foot, as if _he_ has something to be nervous about.

"W-what do you want?" Stiles stammers, shoulders slumping in defeat. He doesn’t want to fight, but he doesn’t want to talk either.

"You looked like you were struggling with your locker," Isaac replies. "I didn’t know if you wanted help."

"I can do it," Stiles quickly dodges.

Isaac raises an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side so his blonde curls fall limply. Stiles ducks his head, face warming with shame. Isaac knows he’s lying.

"My hands won’t stop shaking. I can’t get my lock right."

The hand that appears on his shoulder is somewhat gentle, but Stiles can’t fight the flinch. Isaac has never physically hurt him before, but he’s stood behind Jackson when the other boy has abused him in the school corridors. He’s laughed and pointed when Jackson has done stuff. Shoved him into lockers and shouldered past him in the hallways.

Isaac is no form of a friend to Stiles, so he can’t understand why he’s offering _help?_

Isaac’s hand flies away like he’s been burned, snatching it away from Stiles’ shoulder as soon as he cringes and flinches under the touch. Stiles doesn’t look up from the floor, but he knows there’s a look of guilt and embarrassment colouring Isaac’s face.

"What’s your code?" He asks, and when Stiles tells him, he gets it open in one go.

"Thank you," Stiles murmurs, finally looking up to catch Isaac’s wide and proud smile.

"No problem, man. See you in English."

Stiles nods, and Isaac steps away, disappearing down the hall.

As soon as his back is turned, Stiles slumps into the locker, resting his forehead against the cool metal door and breaths through the pending panic attack that’s sitting heavily on the surface of his chest. He shifts his shoulder, hissing when a sharp wave of pain rolls down his back and flares in his arm.

He shakes it off, standing up and grabbing the spare sweater that he keeps in his locker for emergencies. He puts his rucksack on the floor between his feet as he shrugs on his jumper, moving slow as his shoulder screams and spasms in agony. He’s really screwed it up.

The bell rings just as he manages to get the soft, thick fabric over his head. His sweater is big and baggy enough that it goes over his other ones with no struggle, most likely making him look small and stupid, but he doesn’t care. Hopefully, he’ll go invisible today, as he always does.

He’s the last person in class, running the last stretch of hallway to meet Mr Yukimira in the classroom doorway. The teacher flashes him a stern look that clearly states 'that was a close one. Don’t let it happen again.'

Stiles nods, as if in recognition to the silent message and in greeting, as he ducks into the room.

And then, he freezes, eyes darting to the only spare seat in the room.

At the back, next to—

No. No. _No_ , this is _not_ happening.

Theo Raeken looks up, as if he knows he’s being looked at, and instantly his eyes find Stiles’. There’s a twitch in his lips, and suddenly, the older boy is smiling.

His throat seizes as if invisible hands are clasped around it and squeezing. His stomach flips, and suddenly he can’t breathe. He can’t move, or think, or blink. Everything has rolled to a plummeting stop. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He wants to scream, to cry, to fly across the room and slap that no-good smile off Theo’s face.

". . .iles? Stiles?"

Someone is calling, speaking to him but his ears are stuffed with cotton. He’s underwater. He can’t breathe or hear. Everything is five seconds slower.

Scott is suddenly in front of him, blocking Theo from his view.

"You okay, man?"

Stiles meets his best friends eyes, only then wondering how much of his panic is being shown through his face.

"Stiles?" Scott asks again.

Scott moves then, shifting just enough for Theo to be visible over his shoulder.

A small flash of those familiar blue eyes and that sly smile, and then his stomach is moving into his throat and he bolts. Stiles spins and runs out of the classroom like a flash of light. His feet feel numb underneath him as he sprints down the hall and crashes to his knees, his legs finally giving out from underneath him as the panic fully takes hold, clamping down on his lungs and squeezing the air out of them. He gasps, but nothing happens. There is no air. He can’t breathe. He’s suffocating—

"Stiles!"

Someone is shouting, a pair of hands holding his shoulders, anchoring him against the waves of water drowning him. The world spins into focus and Scott is there, wide brown eyes screaming with concern.

"Stiles, it’s okay. Breathe. Breathe with me, buddy. Thats it, nice and slow. You’re doing great."

When his breathing is finally under control, Stiles comes to his senses and realises he’s kneeling in the middle of the corridor. It sparks a new flare of panic— panic that someone is going to see him like this.

"It’s okay," Scott says when Stiles moves to get up, the grip on his shoulders tightening to keep him down. "You’re okay, Stiles. Don’t get up yet."

"S-Scott. . ."

The older boy shakes his head. "What the hell happened, buddy? You totally freaked out."

"I know," Stiles whispers. He’s breathless when he forces himself to swallow. "I just. . . I—"

"Okay, okay. Don’t worry about it," Scott says quickly, his hands rubbing soothing circles into his shoulders. Stiles is thankful his best friend doesn’t mention the prodding bone sticking out from underneath the skin.

He can’t remember the last time he ate.

 _New York_ , his mind unhelpfully supplies. _When you were actually_ happy. _Remember that feeling?_

"I’m sorry," Stiles murmurs, and Scott suddenly looks so pained it makes Stiles regret even opening his mouth.

Scott pulls him in, his arms enveloping around him in a comforting hug. Stiles hides his face in the older boys shoulder, seeking comfort.

"You don’t need to be sorry, Stiles," Scott says, resting his head on Stiles’. "You don’t need to be sorry for anything."

*****

Derek finds him when he’s sitting out round the back of the school a a few minutes after the bell rings for lunch.

Derek had heard from Scott about Stiles, about the sudden panic attack when he’d entered his history class. Derek didn’t need to hear the details to know that Stiles would have gone stark white, eyes huge and afraid. He’s seen one of Stiles’ panic attacks, and he knows how terrifying it is for the person helping Stiles. But, Scott said he couldn’t think of anything that possibly set Stiles off, so Derek is now determined to find out.

Stiles is laying on the bench, flat on his back with his knees up. He’s got a cigarette between his lips, making him look like a infant handling a beer bottle.

"Stiles," Derek says, and his stomach instantly swims with guilt when Stiles flinches like someone has slapped him, jack-knifing up into a sitting position.

He takes the cigarette from his lips between his fore and middle finger.

"What are you doing here?" He asks hoarsely.

Derek crosses his arm over his chest. "At school? I go here, Stiles. I was _in class_ , where you apparently weren’t."

Stiles rolls his eyes, laying back down and takin another drag of his cigarette. It looks so _wrong_ that it angers Derek more than he expects. He storms forward suddenly, snatching the rolled paper stick from Stiles’ fingers and throwing it on the floor, stomping on it as he snaps, "What _happened_ , Stiles?"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Scott told me about a panic attack, alright?" Derek confesses. "And you’re going to tell me what happened."

"Surely Scott can tell you that, since he tells you everything now," Stiles snarls, leaping off the bench so he’s standing. "I saw you guys talking today, with Lydia too. Don’t think I don’t know about you going behind my back because you just 'care' _so much_ about my precious fucking wellbeing. If you’re trying to win my mom over, you can do that without fucking me around!"

"I do care, Stiles! That’s why I’m standing here, asking you what the _fuck_ is going on!" Derek shouts. His shoulders slump when he sees the tears in Stiles’ eyes and the tremble on his bottom lip. "Please, tell me what’s wrong, Stiles. I can help."

"No, you can't," Stiles whispers brokenly. "You can't help, no one can because he's here and—"

"Who?" Derek rushes forward so he’s standing directly in front of the younger boy. He towers over him, his height and wider shoulders making him look impossibly huge and Stiles look impossibly small. "Who’s here, Stiles?"

"N-no one."

" _Stiles_."

"Theo!" Stiles cries. "Theo is here. He’s in my class, and he was smiling and grinning and— he knew what was happening and he didn’t stop it—"

"Woah, woah, woah. Wait, Stiles," Derek takes the pale face in his hands, stopping Stiles and forcing him to breathe. "What did Theo do?"

"We broke up."

" _Obviously_ ," Derek replies. He waits a beat before he asks impatiently, "Anything else?"

Stiles stares at him a moment too long. "No."

"Stiles."

"It’s nothing," Stiles replies defiantly. "I-its n-n-nothing—"

Derek can practically _feel_ the panic beginning by the stammer and gasp in Stiles’ breath. He panics himself, moving before he’s thinking and suddenly, he’s pulling Stiles into his chest. He rubs his hand up and down the boys back, doing his best not to cringe every time his hand slides over the sickly prominent knobs of his spine. He has no idea what is going on with Stiles, but it’s pissing him off. He knows he can’t be angry with Stiles, because whatever is happening is clearly out of the teens control, so Derek is angry with everything else. He’s angry with the school, with everyone in it, Claudia for being so clueless, and for Derek for letting this happen.

Stiles was _fine_ in New York. He was better, he was smiling, he was eating and laughing and _living_. And now, they’re back and everything his family created for Stiles has been knocked down like a breeze through a house of cards, collapsing in on itself with horrific results. Stiles is a trembling mess in his arms, shaking like a leaf, and Derek is just so _angry_ that everyone is letting this happen.

He draws back, making Stiles looks at him as he says, "Let’s get you home, okay?"

He shoots Scott a text to tell him he’s taking Stiles home and if he can sign them both out, before he wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulder and helps him walk to the car park. Stiles is shaky on is feet, but manages with Derek’s physical support.

He gets Stiles into the Camaro, buckling the passenger seatbelt over him before climbing in the drivers seat and peeling out of the school car park. On the drive home, Derek risks sparing a glance at the teenager beside him and finds Stiles slumped against the cushioned leather, staring aimlessly out the window at the blurring sidewalks and houses.

When they get home, Derek is more than surprised to see Claudia’s car in the driveway.

He manages to get Stiles inside the house, but the moment he shuts the front door behind them, Claudia is stepping out of the kitchen.

"What are you doing home?" Derek asks. "I thought you had work."

"School phoned me. They said you two were coming home for 'medical reasons'," Claudia replies, finger quoting the last two words. She does not look pleased as she looks between them. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Stiles is ill," Derek replies. "He needs to be at home."

"Right," Claudia nods. "Fine. Stiles, you go upstairs. Derek, you can go back to school. Thank you for driving Stiles home—"

"No, Claudia," Derek interrupts. "If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay with Stiles. He needs to be properly cared for. You can just go back to work."

Claudia looks appalled, and for a moment, Derek almost regrets it. But then, he looks at Stiles, at his pale face and weak legs, and decides that Claudia deserved the verbal slap. Without another word, Derek grabs Stiles by the shoulder, gently guides him around his mother and leading him to the stairs.

Derek doesn’t know where Claudia goes, but when he comes back downstairs five minutes later, the house is empty and her car is gone. He doesn’t have a chance to ponder on the thought, however, because then Stiles is coming down the stairs. He’s got changed into a pair of sweatpants and a handful of hoodies, all too big and drowning him. _Christ_ , Derek thinks. Either the kid needs to start eating, or they’re going to need to buy him some clothes that actually fit.

Derek stays with Stiles the whole day. They stay on the sofa, Stiles curled up in the corner under a swaddle of blankets and Derek sitting beside him. Star Wars plays on the huge TV, and it isn’t long into the first movie before Derek hears Stiles’ breathing even out and his features go lax with sleep.

He takes the chance to look at the boy, a _proper_ look. He looks at the raised tendons on his hands, the bones and veins prodding out beneath the stretch skin. He looks at the sickly pale colour, the waxy white of his face contrasting with his sunken purple eyes and cracked white lips. Stiles looks one step away from death there and then, and it terrifies Derek. Everything they did in New York, everything they put right has all come undone. Stiles looks like he did the day Derek found in the middle of the road, drunk off his ass and screaming about how he didn’t want to live anymore. How could they have switched back to this so quick? He knew Stiles took Claudia’s engagement bombshell hard. Hell, even _Derek_ was angry with his father for it.It seemed far too soon, far too desperate. He knows his father loves Claudia, and Claudia looks at his father with such adoration that it could melt stone, but Claudia is missing the key problem in her life: the health of her son. She bypasses everything that happens in front of her, as if she still thinks Stiles’ problems are just 'phases'.

Derek is no fool. He knows therapy isn’t going to help Stiles. Stiles needs support at home before therapy will have an affect. Speaking to a stranger is only going to do so much for Stiles, and even then, Derek knows the teen is too angry and bitter and emotionally beaten to accept the help of a stranger when he knows he won’t get it at home. With a mother like Claudia, it’s no wonder Stiles isn’t trying to get better.

He hears the whimper first. Just one. Small and quiet, so quiet Derek is pretty sure he imagines it at first. He looks at his compassion beside him, sleeping and still, and turns back to the TV.

And then, he hears it again. This time louder. Stiles shifts, fists clenching around the blanket he’s wrapped in. His eyebrows are suddenly pinched, looking pained. He lets out another whimper, his frail body beginning to tremble.

Derek sits stock still, confused and helpless as he comes to the conclusion that Stiles is having a nightmare.

"Stiles?" He finally says. He shifts so he’s facing the boy, his hand coming to rest on the trembling leg.

Stiles head moves from side to side. Derek hears him whispering something under his breath, lips moving like twitches.

And then, he lets out a scream. His whole body coils up under the blanket, feet and legs kicking out. He’s shouting, screaming, thrashing.

Derek is off the soft and by his head in an instant, hands coming down to hold his shoulders.

"Stiles!" He shouts in alarm. "Stiles, wake up! It’s a dream, Stiles. It’s not real!"

"No!" Stiles cries. "No, no, no, please— p-please. Stop! Stop it! Please—"

Derek shakes him, shouts his name louder. Stiles fights him, still under the illusion of his nightmare. Derek doesn’t even want to know what he’s dreaming about, he just wants Stiles to wake up.

"Stiles, wake UP!" He snarls. "Wake up!"

He shouts so loud the sound of his voice echoes around the house, jerking Stiles out of his nightmare. His eyes snap open,body coiling back like he’s been burned from Derek’s touch. He’s still struggling, trying to get away from Derek as tears roll down his cheeks like streams.

"Stiles. Stiles, it’s me. You’re okay, you’re okay now. It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. You’re okay now," Derek repeats, not letting go of the younger teens shoulders. He keeps talking, keeping his voice quiet and soft, gentle like he’s speaking to a child, because honestly Stiles is no different from one in that moment.

Stiles finally stills, cheat heaving and cheeks wet. His eyes are impossibly wide, staring unfocused at the floor. The moment he lets out the first gut-ripped sob, Derek is pulling him into his chest.

*****

Claudia frowns at her son as he comes downstairs for school three days later. When her son enters the kitchen, he looks more sick than he has ever before. She recalls hearing him sniffing and coughing for the past few days, cheeks seemingly constantly tinted cherry red and eyes bloodshot. She doesn’t need to take his temperature to know her son has caught himself some kind of sick bug, and with his already weak health and immune system, Claudia is parked with a new found concern for her son.

Truth be told, she’s been annoyed with both Stiles and Derek since they came home from school earlier that week. Claudia doesn’t know if it was the rude dismissal she got from Derek that has made her angry, or the fact that she is beginning to believe Derek might be right.

Is she really that bad of a mother?

She watches as Stiles grabs a water bottle from out of the fridge and stuffs it in his backpack.

"Do you want some toast, Stiles?" She asks.

Stiles looks up at her with an expression like she’s grown a second head. Or perhaps he’s just surprised she’s actually talking to him after three days of immature radio silence. His eyes flick between the plate of buttered toast in her hands and her face, his own expressionless.

"No, thanks," he rasps, and Claudia can barely hold back the wince at the croak of his voice.

"Are you sure you want to go to school today?" She sighs, finally putting the plate down. "You look sick."

"I’m fine," Stiles says, tone minimal and nonchalant. It sounds rehearsed, and so empty.

"Stiles, I think you should stay home today and rest. I’ll stay home with you. I can make those peanut-butter cookies you love so much," Claudia tries, lips raising into a smile.

"If I’m sick, I don’t think I should be eating cookies," Stiles replies as he looks down and zips up his backpack. "I’m going to school. I don’t want to stay home."

 _With you,_ goes unsaid, but Claudia hears it loud and clear. _I don’t want to stay home with you._

"Fine," she says, steeling herself. She pushes the plate across the table towards him. "Take some toast."

"I’m not—"

"Stiles, if you don’t eat some toast, you are not going to school," Claudia snaps, glaring heatedly.

Stiles looks at her like she’s lost her mind before he rolls his eyes and snatches a slice off the plate. He takes an emphasised bite, quirking his eyebrows up in a silent snark. He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and exits the kitchen. The front door slams shut a few moments later.

Claudia finds the slice of toast on the cabinet by the front door when she leaves for work half an hour later, cold and shrivelled, and only the single bite taken out of it.

*****

When Stiles gets to school, he feels like he’s going to pass out. His head is spinning, his stomach growling and his nose feels like it’s stuffed and blocked - which it _is._

 _Cold’s suck_ , he thinks, _but staying home all day, alone, with his mother sucks even more._

He grabs his books out of his locker and ignores the way his hands are shaking. He’s cold, but he knows he’s sweating. His four jumpers supply him with no salvation against the January chill.

The first three lessons breeze by. Stiles sits at the back, a scrunched up tissue in his hand to catch the drool coming from his nose. He ignores the pissed off glares he gets for the constant sniffing and instead just focuses on staying away - which is especially hard in Harris’ lessons.

He’s stopped by Finstock after his last lesson of the day, who blocks his path when he’s on his way out of the classroom.

"Bilinski," he starts, and Stiles doesn’t have the energy to correct him again. "I see you’ve been skipping my gym classes again. Care to explain?"

"I haven’t been well, coach," he replies.

"No kidding. My grandma looks healthier than you."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Coach, you’re grandma is dead."

"Exactly," Finstock exclaims. "Come on. You need to make up for the credit you’ve lost."

Stiles only just manages to refrain from whining. He knows it won’t get him anywhere, not with Finstock at least, and instead says, "I don’t have my kit with me."

"Lucky for you, Bilinski, we have a lost property in the locker room," Finstock grins. "Go grab something and be out on the field in five."

Stiles gets out there in seven. The clothes he found are fat too big, but they’re the smallest there was. He still has his hoodies on, mostly to hide the scars on his arms because Finstock does _not_ need to see those.

"Don’t look so miserable, Bilinski," Coach says. "The sooner we do this, the sooner we can both go home."

"I’d much rather _just_ go home."

Coach huffs a laugh. "Very funny. I’m sure running will make you feel better."

The first lap sucks. Stiles is wheezing by the end of it, puffing breathlessly and so, _so_ dizzy. His chest heaves but doesn’t take in any oxygen. The pounding in his head intensifies, a cold sweat breaking out across his whole body.

Coach stands at the finish line with a stop watch and a clipboard.

"Five minutes and 27 seconds," he records, looking unimpressed. "Come on, Bilinski. I know children who can run a whole mile quicker than _that!"_

The second lap is much worse. He’s coughing, barely able to breath. His throat burns, his mouth tastes like metal. When he blinks, his vision dances with black spots. Why did he have to come to school? He should have stayed home, bunkered in his bedroom and ignored his mother. At least he could have slept, the exhaustion from the cold and infection coursing through him should have been enough to knock him out long enough without a nightmare.

Coach shouts at him when his time gets longer on the second run and forces him to do it again, shouting another accusation about his grandma.

Stiles can’t breathe during the third lap. His vision bleeds black half way around, the air in his lungs leaving like a punch.

He doesn’t remember falling.

 

_— tbc._


	11. after the storm

Claudia is numb. People around her are talking, but she can’t hear a thing. She can’t move, only stare.

She can only stare at her son in the hospital bed where he lays small and fragile, surrounded by white. There are tubes in his arms and a cannula in his nose, attached to machines that glare at Claudia with screaming accusations. Stiles’s eyes are closed and sunken like purple craters. The largest machine playing the rhythmic beat of her sons sleeping heartbeat is the only thing that assures her her son is still alive - because he sure as _hell_ doesn’t look like it.

A hand lands on her shoulder and Claudia almost falls out the plastic chair she’s slouched in.

He doctor holds up his hands in surrender.

"My apologies," he says. "I didn’t mean to startle you."

Claudia just nods, swallowing thickly and not chancing the challenge of speaking. She doesn’t know what to even say.

The doctor presses his lips tightly together before he takes a deep breath.

"Miss Nowak," he starts, using her maiden name. It’s been a long time since she heard someone so formal say it. "You’re son is very sick."

Claudia wants to laugh, she wants to scream and shout because _Christ_ , she has not been waiting an hour to see a doctor for them to tell her the obvious.

"Stiles is malnourish, severally underweight and dehydrated," he continues. "It’s come to point that organs are beginning to shut down. We’ve got him on nutrients and have fluids going into him now that will hopefully take him off the high risk sector. Claudia, I am afraid to say that your son will not be allowed to go home unit he is no longer a dangerously low weight."

"How long will that take?" She whispers.

"There is no estimate I can make," the doctor replies. "It all depends on your sons commitment, and might I say that people don’t become this weight without actively working towards it."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That Stiles is severely anorexic, and that may be a large complication in helping him get to a healthy weight again," the doctor sighs, sounding pained. "Miss Nowak, this isn’t a life sentence. We can help Stiles. We _will_ help Stiles, but he is under out jurisdiction of health and we cannot allow him to leave until he is across this line of severe malnourishment."

"I understand," Claudia replies, nodding. "Is he. . . Is he going to be okay?"

The doctor watches her for a moment, seeming almost conflicted.

"If Stiles is willing to regain his health, he will be. Is he doesn’t, everything we will manage to achieve at the hospital is going to be undone when he is discharged. I need you to understand, Miss Nowak, that we are going to do everything we possible can, but the only person who can really do this is Stiles."

Claudia nods again.

"Another thing," the doctor adds after a beat, "is that we have found some. . . scars on the inside of Stiles’ arms and legs."

Claudia feels sick. Everything is crumbling around her. The ground is cracking, splitting and opening, swallowing her whole.

"Miss Nowak, are you aware of your sons severe depression?"

And then, everything shatters like an explosion of glass.

"I. . ." her voice cracks painfully. Tears sprout in her eyes, burning and hot. Is she aware? Should she have been aware? "I didn’t— he can’t be—"

"We believe Stiles has been self-harming, and due to the stage in the healing, we think he’s been doing it for a long time."

"This can’t be happening," Claudia whispers. "Please, tell me you’re lying."

The doctor looks her sympathetically. "I’m sorry, Miss Nowak. I truly am, but your son needs help."

The doctor leaves after that, saying that he’ll be back later to check Stiles’ vitals and in that time, he should wake up by himself.

Claudia sits in silence, clutching the flyers the doctor handed to her with 'strong recommendations that Stiles sees someone'.

Claudia had never imagined it would be this bad. She knew it was bad before, because Stiles hasn’t been the same since his father passed, but she didn’t think it would honestly land him in hospital with a depression sticker stamped on his name.

It’s _her_ fault, her mind screams at her. It shrieks the vile truth that she should have already known. It’s her _son,_ for fuck sake. Why didn’t she notice? Why didn’t she say something, or try to get through to him and help more? She’s been so wrapped up in moving on from John, forcing herself to believe it wasn’t a mistake and that life with Robert is better, that she’s completely neglected her own sons needs.

It’s a parents job to protect their children, and Claudia has failed.

 

"They said he’s anorexic," Claudia starts. She’s sitting in the same chair, eyes on her sleeping son who still lays motionless in the hospital bed. She’s been here all afternoon and evening, and time is creeping into night now. Robert arrived only a few minutes ago, coming into the room in one of his smart work suits and looking incredibly displeased to be there. "He has to stay here until he’s a healthy weight. They said. . . they said he’s malnourished and some of his organs have started shutting down," she chokes a sob, dropping her face in her hands. "God, he’s dying, Robert. My little boy is dying."

Claudia had got the phone call from school thirty minutes after it officially finished. Claudia had been walking around the supermarket when her phone rang. It had been the school nurse, calling to say Stiles had collapsed in an after school gym class and an ambulance was taking him to Beacon Hill Memorial. Claudia had almost dropped her phone when she’d pushed the trolly away from her and sprinted out of the supermarket, abandoning her grocery shopping in panic.

Stiles was hurt. Stiles was in _hospital._

She’d driven as fast as she possibly could. She’d found Melissa behind the emergency desk, and she’d quickly pulled Claudia in a private waiting room and told her Stiles had come in minutes before and was still being assessed.

Claudia could see by the look in Melissa’s eyes that she was worried too, but she detected hostility and disappointment in her tone when she basically said she wasn’t surprised that Stiles was here. It felt like a slap, and Claudia had almost been too shocked to continue asking questions. Apparently Stiles had been in detention with Finstock and had passed out when running around the track. At first, Claudia had been furious with this news. Stiles is sick with a cold or a flu, and the schools gym teacher honestly thought it would be appropriate to make him run around a sports track? Claudia had been one second away from stomping out of the hospital and storming over to the school to put down a charge against Finstock for doing this to her son. It’s Melissa who screams at her out of it, telling her that this is not entirely Finstock’s fault, and without saying it, Claudia knew she was hinting that it was Claudia’s fault herself that her son is here.

Claudia hadn’t been it at first, but she’s starting to see it now.

A hand rests on her shoulder. "Don’t worry, love. He’ll be fine. He’s only doing this for attention, you know this. The boy is old enough to know how to feed himself."

Claudia lifts her head slowly. "What?"

"Here, you wait here and I’ll go get his discharge papers. No need to spend all this wasteful expense on hospital bills when all he needs to do is eat something," Robert says, already turning towards the door.

"Robert," she gasps. "He’s. . . he can’t go home! He needs help, they said—"

" _Of course_ they said he needs to stay, they just want our money, Claud!" He insists. "All he needs is a few decent meals and a slap on the wrist for being so childish. He made it to hospital, he’s got the attention he wants. There’s no need to drag this out even further."

"I can’t believe this," Claudia whispers, stunned. Her heart hammers in her chest, bashing against her rib cage like a trapped animal. "He’s not. . . he’s not doing this for attention, Robert! He’s sick! He’s. . . he’s _dying_ and he needs to stay here until they think he’s healthy again."

"Claudia, this isn’t a big deal—"

"Isn’t a big deal?" Claudia screams, shooting out of her chair so fast it topples back and skids across the hospital floor. "That is my _son!_ He is my child, he is all I have left and he is so _sick_ that they might have to feed him through a fucking tube! They’ve been handing me therapy and rehab facilities flyers all day because they’ve found small cuts all over him and they’re concerned he’s depressed!"

Robert scoffs like he doesn’t believe her. "We already knew that, Claudia. The child has been depressed for months. He’s a big boy now, he can look after himself. He should know better than to do something so weak."

Claudia feels like her chest is being crushed by the words the man she loves is speaking.

"Stiles is staying here," she says coolly. "He is staying here until he is healthy, and I am going to support him every step of the way. I should have seen this sooner. I should have _helped_ him sooner, but I didn’t because I was so wrapped up with you and desperate to forget about John that I forgot about my own son, and I missed to see that he has been through a lot more than I realised. So no, Stiles is not going to be discharged. He is going to get help, and I will be damned if he doesn’t get the bed therapist out there to help him!"

Robert stares at her with a blank expression, seeming incredibly unamused. Claudia’s chest rises and falls as a burning determination sizzles through her veins.

Stiles is her son, and for once, she is putting Stiles first.

*****

Waking up is harder than it has ever been before. Stiles feels like his eyes are glued shut. His throat is dry and tight, making it almost impossible for him to attempt to swallow. It feels like sand paper is scratching against the tender flesh of his throat. He grimaces, the bright light shining through his still closed eyelids as consciousness crawls closer.

He must have made a sound, because he feels the hand holding his own suddenly tightening, another hand coming to brush over his head. He wants to turn away from the touch, to get away, but the action is so soothing, so nice that he can feel the frown lines retreating.

"Stiles, love," someone says. It sounds like his mother, but he can’t quite tell. He feels so far from conscious still, yet so close. "Open your eyes, baby. Come back to me."

His ears are stuffed with cotton, brain treading through water.

Finally, he breaks through the invisible bonds holding his eyes closed, opening them with a ghostly flutter of his eyelashes. His bearings are spiralling, everything is blurry.

"Stiles?"

He finds the strength to turn his head, his thoughts a step behind when he realises it is his mother who is sitting at his bedside in. . . hospital?

The panic grips him almost instantly. He’s jerking up, breath catching in his throat.

"Stiles! Stop!" His mother is leaping from her chair, hands holding his shoulders as she gently pushes him back into the bed, his energy already disappearing.

"W-what. . . why—" Stiles stammers, eyes skirting around the room like a scared concerned animal.

"You collapsed at school," Claudia explains, and Stiles’ eyes finally fall on her for long enough to see the tears in her eyes, the crinkles in her clothes and the unnatural disheveled state of her hair. She looks like she’s aged a decade since Stiles last saw her.

Which leads Stiles to his question, "How long have I. . .?"

He doesn’t finish, and he doesn’t have to. His mother understands immediately. "You got brought in this afternoon. It’s just gone midnight now," his mother says. A tear rolls down her cheeks and she looks moments away from breaking out into hysterics. "The doctors. . . why didn’t you tell me?"

Stiles can feel his heart racing. He feels so vulnerable, so exposed as he lays on his back in a foreign room.

"T-tell you w-what?" The words trip over his tongue.

"You. . . you’re malnourished, Stiles," she whispers, voice cracking. She doesn’t speak any louder, as if she’s afraid saying it louder makes it more real. "They’ve diagnosed you with severe anorexia and depression."

"I. . . I’m n-not—"

Claudia shakes her head furiously. "No. _No_ more lies. I know what you’ve been doing, Stiles. I’ve known for a long time but I was too blind to put the dots together. And for that, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, Stiles."

Stiles watches in shock as his mother breaks down in front of him, sobbing uncontrollably.

He doesn’t know what to say, and he’s not sure if he even knew, that he would be able to get the words out. Guilt settles in his stomach like a cold stone, heavy and chilling. He didn’t want this.

"It’s. . . it’s not your fault," he whispers.

"It _is,_ Stiles," Claudia cries harder, taking his hand into her own again, her skin soft and warm. "I’m your mother. I should have helped you long before it came to this. I’m sorry. I. . . I _failed_ you."

"What do you know?" Stiles asks.

Claudia looks at him for a moment, silent.

"I know about the scars," she murmurs. "I know what you’ve been doing to yourself, but I just don’t know why."

Stiles nods, but it isn’t all right. He feel like he can’t breathe anymore. Everything is out in the open. Everybody knows how weak and pathetic he is.

"Do you. . ." he trails off, swallowing thickly. He’s so thirsty, throat so dry. "Do you hate me?"

His mother looks like he just physically slapped her. Her jaw drops like a hot stone, eyes swelling with a fresh flood of tears.

"Oh, God," she chokes, shifting so she’s closer to him. She runs a hand through his hair as tears roll down her cheeks. "God, no. _No,_ Stiles. I could never hate you."

"Are you embarrassed?" Stiles asks, closing his eyes. He doesn’t want to see his mother’s expression anymore.

He hears her breath hitch. "Yes, but not because of you. I’m embarrassed because this shows how much of an awful mother I am, and how much I have abandoned you over this past year."

"M-mom—. . ."

"Please, Stiles," she interrupts softly, "please. . . don’t."

She lowers her head so Stiles can’t see her face, pressing it into the pale blue blankets that cover his frail body. Stiles closes his eyes again to the sobs she makes, wishing once again that everything would just _stop_.

 

The doctor comes the next morning, explains what they’ve diagnosed Stiles with and what he needs to do to go home. They tell him he needs to be weighed as by appearance, and they can see his is clearly malnourished but they need numbers to estimate the next course of action.

It’s worse than embarrassing. It’s Melissa who comes in to do it, so the situation could be worse. He wants to ask his mother to leave when it happens, to look away when they remove his hospital gown. He hears her gasp, can imagine the tears in her eyes and disgust twisting in her expression.

"Oh, Stiles," he hears her whisper, and he closes his eyes against the tears as he steps onto the scales.

Melissa squeezes his hand before he looks down.

110 pounds.

 _Malnourished_ , his mind supplies. _Drastically underweight. Anorexic. Sick._

The words and number are repeated a thousand times in a day. They talk to him about nutritional diets they’re going to put him on to help him get back over the malnourished measurement and hopefully far from it, and they also assure if that if he refuses, they might tube him.

So in a way, Stiles realises that he doesn’t have a choice about eating anymore. There is no way he is going to be able to get out of it now, especially not with everyone around him, the daily measurements and constant check-ups. Melissa is assigned as his nurse, which makes the whole situation even worse for every time she sees him, her eyes pool with sympathy and sadness. It only adds to Stiles’ guilt.

In a brief moment when his mother is getting herself coffee and phoning Robert, Melissa comes into his room.

"Hey, kiddo," she says, smiling at him. She takes the seat next to the bed, dressed in scrubs and hair messily tied back. "How you feeling?"

"How do you think?" Stiles whispers. He wanted to sound harsh, cold, and angry, but it comes out sad and watery. He knows there are tears in his eyes before he feels the burn.

Melissa’s smile turns sad. "It’ll be okay, kid. We’ll get through this, you’re not alone."

He closes his eyes tight, tears spilling out against his will. "I hate hospitals."

A warm hand holds his. "I know," Melissa murmurs. "I know you do. But the sooner we get you better, the sooner you can go home."

Stiles nods, but he doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t want to go home either.

Melissa leaves soon after that, but not after squeezing his shoulder, kissing his forehead and promising that he isn’t alone anymore.

 

Days pass. When the doctors aren’t pestering him, Stiles lays on his side, knees curled into his chest and ignores the world around him. His mother refuses to leave his bedside, but in a way, Stiles can’t be mad about it. He hates hospitals in every possible way, and the last thing he wants now is to be alone.

The only time Claudia leaves him is when Lydia and Scott are there, or Derek and Cora.

Her first visit home comes when Derek takes a day off school to sit with Stiles, two days after he woke up. Derek brings him his sketchbook and laptop, to which Stiles says a small 'thank you' but nothing else. He doesn’t even attempt to pull out the stuff from the bag. He’s bored, but he is also tired. He’s always tired now, and he’s tired of being tired. They tell him it’s natural: that his body is so weak. The fatigue is a natural side effect of starving yourself to the brink of death.

Derek doesn't speak when he stays. He just sits there, reading a book and occasionally asking Stiles if he wants a drink. He doesn't ask about food, he doesn't pester about how he's feeling or if he's okay. That’s all anybody seems to ask him anymore, Stiles can't thank Derek enough for it.

On the first day Derek is there alone, he calls someone in the hospital room and hands the phone to Stiles silently. Stiles, who is laying on his side, headphones in his old iPod (his mother won’t bring him his phone), frowns when Derek thrusts the phone in his hand and nods as if to say 'Go on'.

Stiles slowly and hesitantly takes the headphones out of his ears and replaces it with the phone.

"Hello?"

"Stiles?" Talia’s voice comes through, clear and loud. Stiles’ breath hitches and his eyes snap up to meet Derek’s, who looks as equally as terrified as Stiles feels. Stiles can’t believe it, it’s _Talia._ "Love, is that you?"

Stiles realises he’s been quiet for too long. He opens his mouth, brain fusing short.

"T-Talia?" His voice is so raspy it’s almost unrecognisable. "Wha. . . why are you calling me?"

"Oh, love," Talia sounds sad already, and it’s a punch in Stiles’ chest. "Derek told me what happened. Sweetie, I. . . I want you to know you have a friend here. Me and Laura are. . . we’re your family too and I want you to remember that."

Stiles nods, and then he realises Talia can’t see him. "I know," he chokes.

"I’m so sorry you feel like this, Stiles. I want to make you feel better, and I thought we did when you were with us, but I have to keep reminding myself that a week away from everything is no healing remedy."

"I’m sorry," Stiles whispers. "I wish. . . I wish I was better."

"Thats not what I want, Stiles. I want you to be better, I want you to _feel_ better. The way you feel now, it will go away, but you need to really want it, my love. You can’t just want to be better because you feel guilty that others are sad, or you think you’re hurting people because you’re not okay. _That_ is not okay. You need to want to feel better for yourself, no one else. Understand?"

"I understand," Stiles replies. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he feels the familiar burn in his eyes. He can’t work out if he’s crying because of Talia’s kindness, or because of the honest realisation that has hit him so hard it was like a physical blow.

Is he ready to be better?

To be better, he needs to eat without the feeling of nausea plaguing him. To be better, he needs to not feel the desperation and need to find relief in the familiar sting of a blade. To be better, he can’t feel like he’s permanently drowning in a black sea whenever he see’s Theo, or his mother, or hears his fathers name.

Is he even _able_ to get better?

Or is he too broken?

"You have family here, Stiles. Me and Laura care about you so damn much, I can’t even explain it. You have Derek and Cora too," Talia says. "I have never met your mother, but I hope to think she is being as supportive as I wish I could be to you right now. You need people on your side, Stiles. I want you to know me and Laura are and forever will be, on your side."

"Th-thank you," Stiles stammers. He feels so fragile in that moment, like someone has crooked their fingers inside him and are making the cracks bigger.

"You don’t need to thank me, Stiles," Talia replies, and she sounds so _earnest_ Stiles could sob just because of her tone. "You just need to promise me something."

He feels his eyebrows pinch an inch. He replies with hesitance, "What?"

"That next time you feel bad, next time you feel this low, you will tell someone. It doesn’t have to be me, or your mother, or Derek. But I want you to tell someone. Anyone, Stiles. Do you promise me that?"

Stiles shakes his head. "I don’t know if I can do that, Talia."

"All right," she says, and she doesn’t sound angry, or disappointed, or annoyed. She sounds patient, soft and kind. She sounds like Talia. "Don’t promise, but try. All you can do now, Stiles, is try."

"I’ll. . . I’ll try."

"Good. I. . . we love you, Stiles," she murmurs. "I want to hear from you again, when you go home. I want to know you’re okay."

"I will," Stiles nods. "I’ll call."

"Good. Get well, sweetie," she replies. "Laura sends her love too."

"Thank you," he whispers. He can’t speak any louder, he can’t force himself to speak up. He feels like every word is thin ice, so fragile and breakable.

"Good bye, love," she says, and he can almost imagine her smile.

After they hang up, Stiles hands the phone back, tears rolling down his cheeks. He meets Derek’s eyes, wide with fear and worry.

"Thank you," Stiles whispers. Derek nods, and when Stiles hands him the phone, Derek holds his hand too.

Cora is the same when she visits. She doesn’t come as often as Derek, and never visits him alone. But when she does, she speaks about all the TV he’s missing and discusses anything interesting or funny that happened at school. She doesn’t talk about home, and she doesn’t talk about the hospital.

Scott and Lydia are different to begin with. The moment Scott see’s him, he starts crying. He stands in the doorway, tears filling his big eyes. Stiles’ heart cracks in his chest, guilt swallowing him whole. Him and Scott hug, the older boy practically throwing himself onto the bed and collecting Stiles into his arms. It’s nice, and it’s exactly what Stiles needs.

They pester him during the first few visits. They keep asking if he’s okay, if he’s hungry, if there’s anything he needs. It gets to frustrating that he finally snaps after the third visit, telling them to stop treating him like a fragile child. They have another cry and a cuddle, and after that, they’re better. They avoid the subject, but they do ask more than Derek and Cora - Lydia more often than Scott.

He’s rarely left alone, but when he is, Stiles either sleeps or draws.

The doctors come and go like traffic through his door. They check his vitals, bring him scheduled meals with specific food and Melissa watches him as he eats. She talks to whoever is visiting him, as if she’s trying to make the situation and atmosphere easier on Stiles. It doesn’t work: Stiles knows he’s being watched as he suffers through meal after meal. They try to distract him after too, speak to him or encourage him to draw something. It never works. He curls on his side, back to whoever is in the room and closes his eyes against the nausea swimming in his stomach with violent waves. He can literally _feel_ the fat clinging to his stomach and legs as he lays there, the food he’s eaten poisoning him from the inside when there is _nothing_ he can do about it. He can vomit it back up, he can’t throw it away before anyone see’s. He notices the nurses and doctors attempt to subtly check the bin on their way in and out, as if to check that he hasn’t thrown any food away while they weren’t looking.

Stiles feels trapped, claustrophobic. He feels like he can’t breath whenever someone is in the room. Constantly, eyes are on him. There is not a moment that he isn’t being watched or checked on.

Yet at the same time, Stiles has never felt more lonely.

*****

Claudia is a mess. Derek can see it every time she comes home or he sees her in Stiles’ hospital room. He can see the guilt eating her like a parasite, and he wants to feel sorry for her. He wants to comfort her, but he just can’t. Every time he thinks about it, every time he see’s Stiles, see’s his delicately thin wrists, gaunt cheek bones or the in-cave of his stomach, he feels an undeniable anger towards the woman who claims to be his mother.

Derek doesn’t know how it came to this, but he hates himself for letting it get this far. He hates how he _was_ the signs and did nothing to help, but also, he missed the last hurdles Stiles managed to jump that landed him in a hospital bed with the threat of death hanging over him like a black veil.

Guilt settles in him like a whisk in his stomach. He should have done something. He should have made Stiles get proper help before it came to him being locked in a hospital to be forced fed. Watching him eat is more painful than anything Derek has ever seen. He's made a scene about Stiles being his brother, about Stiles being _family_ , and yet he did nothing to prevent what has happened.

When Derek got home from Isaac's that night, his father had told him that Stiles was in hospital. The nonchalant tone of his voice had bristled Derek enough, but the final push over the edge was when he found out Stiles had been in hospital all afternoon and Robert hadn't told him. Cora had been just as furious, and the pair of them had stormed out and drove to the hospital straight away. Derek felt sick when he found out that Stiles had passed out running around the track is some sort of last-minute detention with Finstock. Derek wants to be mad, but he was to worried in that moment with the sight of Stiles, so pale and small in the hospital bed.

The night after Stiles is admitted, Derek phoned his mother to tell her what happened. His mother had been a second away from hopping on the soonest plane and flying over. He must have been on speaker, because he could hear Laura freaking out, shouting venom about Stiles' mother being hopeless, about Stiles deserving better.

Derek couldn't agree more, but he couldn't, and still can't, let his mother and Laura come here. As much as Stiles loves Talia, and as much as his mother adores the young boy like her own son, Stiles needs his real mother during all of this. Stiles needs his mother to finally come out of the fog and realise the perfect world she lives in isnt so perfect, because if she keeps acting the way she is acting, then Stiles isn't going to be in this world.

Talia seems to understand, though she doesn't seem happy about it. She demands that Stiles phones her when he can, and Derek doesn't know if it is so she can shout at him or caress him with love and affection.

Derek manages to see Stiles alone on his third day in the hospital after a long battle at convincing Claudia to finally go home. While Derek is there, after Cora has gone, Derek calls his mother and hands the phone to Stiles.

He doesn't know what is said between them, but Stiles is crying by the end of it. Guilt and worry had begun to build so heavily in Derek's stomach that he worries he might vomit by the time Stiles ends the call. But when Stiles hands back the phone, he gives Derek a small, shy smile and says, "Thank you."

Something new and strong forms between them that day, and Derek makes a promise to himself that no matter what, he is going to help Stiles.

*****

Stiles is released on a Friday, a total of four weeks and two days since he was admitted after passing out on the track. Four weeks of planned diets, therapy sessions, consent supervision and fucking _snacks._ Stiles will never be able to snack again after the four weeks of constant snacks being shoved under his nose.

His mother treats him like glass now. The day he is sent hoe, she opens the car door for him as if the action might break him. She watches him climb the house steps and opens the front door before he can even reach for the handle.

"There you go, love," she says, and Stiles is a moment away from snapping that he isn’t fucking incapable.

Instead, he says nothing. He’s gotten pretty good at that over the past four weeks.

He walks past her, taking his rucksack that contains the stuff everybody brought for him at the hospital.

"Stiles—" his mother starts, but Stiles quickly turns around and silences her with a raise of his hand.

"I can handle it," he says. His mother looks partially startled, but she doesn’t say anything else.

She nods, looking like she is physically holding herself back from mother-henning him again.

He turns back around before she can, making a quick exit up the stairs just as Derek and Cora come out of the kitchen. Stiles has no idea if Robert is home, but he has no intentions of interacting with any of them at all for the rest of the day. He dashes up the stairs, not breaking the pace until he shuts his bedroom door behind him, shutting everything and everyone out.

If only it was that easy.

His room feels foreign. It’s just like when he moved in, nothing feels his own. He feels more out of place than ever. He stands next to the door, bag hanging off his shoulder. He doesn’t know what to do next.

Everything feels darker now, but surely it’s meant to feel better?

He looks at the drawings on the walls, the paintings and rough sketches. He looks at the desk, cluttered with his untouched school books. His watercolour book lays open, pencil tin open and empty as the pencils are spewed across the desk, just as he left them. His water pot sits at the back of the desk, the water inside still a murky blue colour, flakes of paint floating at the top like a unbroken seal. His bed is still unmade, and Stiles is surprised his mother hasn’t changed them and put it all bag, tidy and neat. Instead, the covers rumpled and thrown back from when he’d woken up that morning, slick with sweat and shaking from the flashing images behind his eyes as the nightmare spiralled out of his mind.

Nothing has changed, yet everything has.

The knock at the door behind him throws him out of his skin. He jumps three foot into the air, stumbling on shaky legs so he hits the foot of his bed. The door opens, and Derek steps inside, looking panicked.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles swallows thickly, willing his breathing to calm the _fuck_ down. He nods, not trusting his voice.

"Did I scare you?" Derek asks, and Stiles’ lack of answer apparently clarifies that for him. His expression morphs into something riddled with guilt and concern. Stiles swears that’s all he sees anymore. "Sorry," Derek adds.

Stiles shakes his head in clear dismissal, and reaches to pick up the bag he’d dropped in his fright.

Derek gets it before he can, giving it to him with a sheepish smile. "Are you doing anything?"

Stiles frowns, shaking his head. "Apart from avoiding everyone, no."

Derek smiles, and Stiles wants to tell him that 'everyone' includes him, but Derek is talking again, throwing Stiles' bag on the bed and grabbing his hand. "Good, because we’re going out."

Stiles’ eyebrow skid to his hairline. "W-what?"

Derek pulls him out the bedroom door before he can resist, shutting the door behind them and guiding him down the hallway.

"I said, we’re going out," Derek repeats.

Stiles is too stunned to shrug off the hand on his shoulder as Derek leads him down the stairs and towards the front door.

Claudia looks up from where she’s chopping vegetables for dinner. "Derek, Stiles, what are you—"

"We’re going out," Derek interrupts, scooping up his keys in the hand that’s not holding Stiles. He opens the front door, pushing Stiles through it first. "We’ll be back in time for dinner!"

Stiles waits until Derek has driven them to the main road to finally break the silence and ask the question looming between them.

"Where are we going?"

"You’ll see," Derek replies, toneless. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

Stiles rolls his eyes aggressively. "Derek, I swear to God, if you don’t tell me now I will throw myself out of this car."

"No, you won’t."

He scoffs. "I won’t?!"

"Nope."

"How the _fuck_ do you know what I will and won’t do?" Stiles snarls, turning his body to face Derek. He can feel his cheeks burning red, both with anger and embarrassment of how well Derek can see through his masks now.

"Because I know you don’t want to die, Stiles," Derek replies, finally looking at him out of the corner of his eye. "If you did, you would have done it a long time ago."

Stiles opens his mouth, a sarcastic, snarky comment on the tip of his tongue. He closes his mouth moments later, because Derek is right: Stiles doesn’t want to die. But that doesn’t mean he wants to live either.

Stiles barks a dark laugh when the car finally rolls to a stop.

"Really? You bought me to the fucking beach?" He says, looking at Derek with wide eyes. "Did you think some sunshine and fresh air would put me in a better mood?"

"No, mostly because it _isn’t_ sunny," Derek replies, turning off the engine and pulling the keys out. He turns to Stiles. "It’s March, and no amount of sunshine will brighten your miserable mood."

Stiles wants to slap him, but he feels strangely vulnerable at Derek’s blunt truth.

Derek sighs. "I brought you to the beach because it’s the best place to think. No one comes here. We’re completely alone."

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, the words sinking in.

"Okay," he says. "But I’m not signing up for some therapy session with Doctor Hale."

Derek smiles. "I’d be a pretty shit therapist."

"Damn right."

The air is cold, a gusty wind making the air bite the skin it touches. Stiles tightens the hoodie he wears around himself, shoulders hunching as he climbs out of the car and follows Derek past the car and onto the unsteady pebbles. His feet slide as the stones underneath his shoes shift and move, making his balance twist and blanch.

He finally finds salvation when the stones change to sand, and he follows Derek as they climb the sand dunes. Derek sits down on one, and Stiles follows in suit, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

There’s an odd calmness of sitting on the beach that no where else compares to. The feeling of being free, of finally being weightless, is irreplaceable.

Stiles looks back the way they came. He looks at the stones, the crashing waves, and feels his stomach twist. Theo’s face flashes behind his eyes. They came here often too, just to get away. Sometimes they would throw stones, sometimes they would pop pills like candy and smoke like chimneys just to make sure that weightless feeling lasted a little bit longer. Sometimes they laid on the stones, staring at the clouds above. Sometimes they talked, and other times they just indulged in the beauty of silence, the only sound being the waves hitting the stones.

"Stiles?"

He breaks his eyes away from the pale grey waves, turning to look at the older male beside him.

Derek’s face is soft, gentle concern pinching the corners of his eyes.

"I came here all the time with Theo," Stiles admits, the words tumbling from his lips like vomit, unstoppable.

Derek nods. "I know, but that’s not why I brought you here."

"Then why did you?"

"Because I know you feel the same calmness here that you always felt with him," Derek says. "I want you to know that everything good you felt with Theo, you can feel without him."

Stiles stares down at the grains of sand that brush over his shoes by the wind.

"I don’t think I can feel anything good anymore," Stiles whispers, not sure if it’s to himself or to Derek.

"You can, Stiles."

The younger teen shakes his head and whispers, "I’m broken in so many ways, I don’t even think death can stop the pain."

The words can barely be heard over the wind, but he knows Derek hears him. He feels the older boy tense next to him.

"You’re not broken, Stiles," Derek replies. "You’re just damaged. But damaged things can be fixed, with time, and care, and work."

"What if it’s too late?" Stiles looks to the older boy, the boy he has grown to consider the brother he’s never had, tears swelling in his eyes. "What if I’m too damaged to be fixed?"

"Then we’ll find a way," Derek murmurs. "You won’t feel like this forever."

Stiles feels the tears roll down his cheeks, but he doesn’t have the energy to life his hand and wipe them way. He feels torn open, like everything he’s spent years hiding have been pinned on the walls for everyone to see.

"You’re not alone as you think, Stiles," Derek says softly. "I know you think you can’t tell anyone the things you’ve told me but I think it might help. Scott or Lydia, they’re your friends too, and they care about you more than you know."

"I know they care," Stiles replies. "But I can’t tell them. I can’t tell anyone."

"You told me," Derek shrugs, and Stiles knows he’s referring to the night in the road, after Donovan. . .

"That was different," Stiles insists. "I wasn’t. . . I wasn’t in the right state of mind."

"Are you now?"

"I can’t tell them, Derek," Stiles repeats, defeated. "I don’t _want_ to tell them."

Derek nods. "You know, you don’t have to tell them everything to let them in."

 

Things change after that. It isn’t perfect, and they aren’t much better than they were before, but they’re different. Stiles still skips his meals, dropping the weight he gained in the hospital, but he does it as such a slow rate that no one notices the alarming drop. One trip to the hospital and his mother _finally_ giving a shit, isn’t going to cure the years of damage and bashes Stiles has taken. He’s chipped, cracked and shattering. He’s still so far from being fixed.

Having been away for a month, Stiles has plenty of school work to catch up on. Scott and Lydia brought him some work while he was in the hospital, but it wasn’t enough to stop him from falling behind. The teachers are sickeningly sympathetic, flashing him pity smiles and telling him he can take all the time he needs to catch up. The only one who doesn’t teach him like a five year old who’s lost both his parents, is Mr Harris, who greets Stiles for the first time in a month with a detention slip and a snark about how his 'trip' isn’t an excuse to slack in his work.

Stiles spends a lot of time during his first week back in the library, whizzing through sheet after sheet. He leaves when the library closes at six, and gets home just to go straight to his bedroom to finish whatever he started. After a week, Cora joins him. She joins him in the library, bringing him packets of fruit and sits there in a brooding silence as company. Stiles smiles when she turns up, feeling somewhat comforted.

He catches up soon enough, and blushes every time someone gushes about how smart he is.

At school, Stiles notices Derek stays closer to him. The older teen sits with Stiles and his group at lunch, hovers around Stiles like a shadow in the corridors. He makes sure Stiles is okay, making sure Stiles knows he’s always there. It should be annoying, but Stiles can’t find it in himself to be mad. In fact, the extra attention from the older Hale makes him feel less exposed. Sheltered, almost.

It’s weird sometimes, because Derek is a few years above him in school, and it’s not normal for seniors to sit with anyone _other than_ seniors. The lunch table grows over night, as Derek and his friends suddenly join them.

Stiles can feel them watching him like a hawk during lunchtime. They watch every bite he takes, always asking if he has food and even if he says yes and it _isn’t_ a lie, they always go and buy him something else.

"Just eat this too," they insist. "Just one more bite."

He doesn’t eat it, of course. Years of practice has taught Stiles the distraction of talking, drinking and moving his food around enough to avoid actually eating it. Everyone seems so keen on seeing him so lively that they don’t even notice him barely taking three bites of each meal.

It goes on for months, and things seem to have settled down until one lunch time, Jackson decides to make a joke about Stiles that makes his cheeks go red and his heart tick up a notch. But, before he can panic, before he can process that Jackson, the guy who’s tormented him for years to the point of physical violence, has said something about his hospital visit, Derek is reaching across the table and punching Jackson square in the face.

Jackson is catapulted backwards, falling off his chair with a loud chair clatter as he curses and shouts in pain. Blood gushes from his nose, Lydia gasps and Allison cries out in shock. Stiles is frozen for a small moment, and then he’s grabbing his bag and making a dash for the lunch hall exit.

He makes it out back, going to his usual spot. The panic grips him like a vice, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until his lungs can barely move. He skids to his knees, not even registering the denim of his jeans ripping against the rough concrete floor, the skin of his knobby knees splitting.

He gasps in a breath, finally relieving his burning lungs.

Derek finds him the next period. Stiles hasn’t moved from the floor, only shuffled back so he’s leaning against the wall. His knees are scraped and bloody, drying in the colour of rust. Stiles hasn’t bothered to tend to them, actually enjoying the throbbing sting.

He looks up when Derek approaches him, cigarette between his fingers.

"Why did you do that?" He asks.

"Because I know what he used to do to you," Derek replies, expression blank and unapologetic. "And you being in hospital is nothing to joke about, nor is the reason you were there."

"Why do you care?"

"Because you’re my little brother, Stiles," Derek answers, flashing him a gentle smile. "It’s my job to protect you."

 

One month later, on April 14th, Claudia forgets Stiles’ birthday.

 

_— tbc._


	12. bites and bruises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS APPLY.**

The wedding comes like a surprise, despite Stiles having been thinking about it for five months since his mother announced the proposal.

They have the wedding in the middle May, six months after Robert proposed at Christmas, and exactly four months after Stiles was released from hospital.

On the day of the wedding, Stiles is already awake by the time his mother knocks on the hotel door. They’re staying at the grande house where the ceremony and after-party is being held, and if the anxiety of the whole day isn’t enough to keep Stiles awake all night, then the change of scenery is.

His mother walks in at 9AM sharp, her smile instantly dropping into a tight frown.

"Did you sleep at all?" She asks, walking in further and sitting down on the bed. She’s hesitant, and has been since the hospital. Stiles wonders if his mother is scared of him, scared of what he has done and what he thinks. Their relationship has never been further apart, with the hospital, the wedding planning and her forgetting Stiles’ birthday, Stiles wonders what they even are to each other.

"What time is the ceremony?" Stiles asks instead, ignoring her question. He’s been told the answer to this a thousand times, but he can’t find the energy to remember.

"It starts at two," his mother replies, staying on the edge of the bed even when Stiles stands up. "We have breakfast booked for nine-thirty downstairs in the main kitchen. Can you join us, please?"

Stiles stands in the en-suite bathroom, the door open so his mother can see him as he leans on the sink frame, lowering his head and taking a deep breath. He doesn’t have the fight in him to defy his mother today, or ruin it for everyone else.

"I’m not very hungry," Stiles murmurs, not sure if his mother even hears. "Eating in the morning makes me feel sick."

His mother sighs, but not with any hints of exasperation or anger. Instead, she sounds kind of sad. "You don’t need to have much. A slice of toast is enough. You just need to eat enough so you can take your meds"

 _Oh, yes,_ Stiles thinks: his wonderful cocktail of medication the hospital and Marin Morrell have prescribed him since his release.

"Stiles," his mother says, voice soft and unusually comfortingly. "Have a shower, freshen up and meet us downstairs. It will make the day much easier if you don’t isolate yourself right up until the ceremony."

Stiles doesn’t know what else to do but nod. His mother leaves the room without another word, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

He takes a long shower, just standing under the spray and feels it wash over him in a hundred small drops. He keeps the water cold, trying to force himself to wake up. Things have been tense at home since the hospital between Claudia and Robert, and Stiles knows he is the cause for driving a wedge between them - which, while Stiles hates the man, was never an intention of his. Stiles can’t stand the man, and he hates how his mother has moved on so fat, but at the same time, he wants her to be happy - because that’s what his father would want.

Stiles must be in the shower longer than he thinks, because just as he steps back into his hotel bedroom to dry off and get dressed, there is a knock at the door.

"Stiles? Are you in there?" Cora’s voice calls through. "You haven’t fallen over in the shower, have you?"

Stiles clings the towel wrapped around his shoulders, the drying water making his skin cold.

"I’m fine," he calls back. "I was showering."

He thinks he hears Cora snort, but he’s not sure. "It’s gone half nine. Get dressed and come downstairs before your mother has a damn aneurysm."

Stiles throws on a pair of sweatpants and two sweatshirts - he still gets cold even in the spring weather. His stomach twists with anxiety as he opens the door.

"Christ, did you sleep at all? You look like shit," Cora comments, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"I’m fine," he replies, stepping out of the room and shutting the door behind him. He slips the key into his trouser pocket, using the draw strings to tighten the loose waist band.

"You better be. Today isn’t the day not to be," Cora says as they walk. "You know, I don’t know how excited your mother is for this."

Stiles frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, shouldn’t the bride be super excited on their wedding day? Your mother looks like she’d rather be anywhere else," Cora explains, and Stiles doesn’t have another chance to ask as they’re walking into the kitchen.

Stiles eats three bites of toast, swallows down his pills with a swig of water and leaves the table before anyone can talk to him. He doesn’t care if his mother wants him there, he knows it will be less awkward if he’s not.

He goes back up to his room, looking around the luxury suite his mother has booked for him, and really, it is luxury. It’s large, with a king-size bed in the centre, it’s metal cursive frame painted black. There’s wall length-windows on either side of the bed, a dressing table along the right wall next to the wardrobe. Theres a long table on the opposite side of the room with an assortment of tea and coffee grains for the small coffee machine, a vase of red flowers and a telephone for room-service. The door to the bathroom leads to the dream-like room, with a walk-in shower and a bathtub sitting in the middle of the room.

Stiles pulls his sketchpad and pencils out of his overnight bag and sits on the bed.

He draws until there’s a knock at the door, and it opens before he can complain.

Derek steps in. "One-thirty buddy. You gotta get dressed."

Apparently, Derek is already dressed. He’s wearing a black suit, grey pants with thin black lines going parallel down them. His white shirt is barely visible under the creme waist coat, buttoned up underneath his suit jacket. The emerald green tie sits vibrantly on his chest.

"I’ll get dressed now," Stiles mutters, shuffling off the bed and going to the wardrobe.

Derek nods, but instead of leaving, he steps further into the room and closes the door behind him.

"What. . . what are you doing?" Stiles asks.

"I’d rather sit in here than spend the next half-hour downstairs with my father and his business partner," Derek replies, sitting on the foot of the bed. Stiles isn’t surprised that Robert’s best man is one of his business partners. "I’m sure you can relate."

Stiles snorts quietly, nodding as he moves into the bathroom to get changed. The hospital visit did nothing to help his confidence, if anything, it has diminished it even more. He feels like he has nothing private anymore, and the idea of purposely revealing anything to them again makes him feel sick.

Stiles steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later, the suit being the first bit of clothing he’s worn in years that _fits._ The suit is tight, the pants adjusted to sit perfectly on his waist. He looks like a beanpole, like he truly is nothing but bones under clothes.

"How you feeling?" Derek asks.

Stiles shrugs. "Fine."

"You seriously need to learn the proper definition of 'fine'," Derek grumbles.

"Take a wild guess, Derek. How do _you_ think I’m feeling?"

"It’ll be fine," Derek assures him, and Stiles wants to scoff because it will _not_ be _fine_. "It’ll be over before you know it."

Derek’s right, the wedding _does_ go quickly. Stiles see’s some of his mother’s family that he hasn’t seen in a long time, but not many of them. Being from Poland, it’s a long trip for most of them to come for a day, so the guest list from his mothers side is small. Claudia says she doesn’t mind, but Stiles can see she really misses them, especially when she’s surrounded by Robert’s family and friends (business partners), and her own minuscule and absent.

Stiles spends most of the days events hiding between Derek and Cora, indulging the easy act of being invisible. In the evening, Scott and Lydia turn up with their parents, so it gives Stiles someone else to speak to and hide behind. Lydia even manages to get him dancing in the evening, laughing freely and worries washing away, even if it’s only for a short while.

In the middle of the evening, Stiles escapes for a cigarette break, and Cora finds him on the steps.

"Hey, kid," she greets, sitting down beside him. She’s dressed in the bottle-green bridesmaid dress Claudia picked out for the wedding, the colour matching the ties Robert, Derek, Stiles and his best man have worn. Stiles remembers the hours of protests and tantrums Cora threw when she was told she had to wear a dress. "Are you as miserable as me?"

"You bet it," Stiles grumbles, taking a drag. "Rather be anywhere else."

Cora scoffs. "Join the club. Weddings are the worst."

"Funerals are more fun."

Cora laughs so hard Stiles is pretty sure she busts a lung. She practically falls of the stairs, sliding down in hysteria.

"Jesus," Stiles chuckles. "Calm down."

"I can’t," Cora wheezes. "I got cornered by my Aunt Steph and the only way to drown out her talking was to drink the wine."

"You’re drunk," Stiles observes.

"Not yet, but close," Cora answers, climbing the stairs and dropping down beside him. "You know, you’re now legal to smoke cigarettes in England."

Stiles nods. "Yep. Can’t buy them though."

"Why do you smoke?"

"Makes me feel better, like most drugs do," Stiles shrugs, stubbing out the dead bud. "Where’s Laura?"

"She didn’t come. She called last night to say something had come up," Cora replies. "I knew she wouldn’t come. She told me back in March that there was no way she was coming, but I knew before that. No one hates my father more than Laura."

Stiles frowns. "Why?"

"They never got on, even before my mother left. I don’t know. They just clashed. Laura was too reckless, to rebellious against his 'rules'."

"I shouldn’t be surprised," Stiles nods. "I can’t imagine Laura and your father getting along."

Cora snorts. "Lots of amusing arguments endured when Laura lived here. It was a fight every night."

Stiles chuckles and lights another cigarette.

"What about you?" Cora asks, watching him. "Doesn’t look like there’s much of your family in there."

"My mothers from Poland, all of her family are there and they didn’t want to make the trip. I’m not surprised, they aren’t the easiest people to get along with. Very traditional."

"Worse than your mother?"

"Way worse. Theres only my gran and my aunt anyway. My aunts daughter doesn’t speak to her, and she’s here today with her daughters. You might have seen them, the three in matching blue dressed?"

Cora nods. "Ah, yes. The fat smurfs."

Stiles snorts. "Nice. Yes, the fat smurfs."

"Does your dad have any relatives?"

Stiles shakes his head. "No. he was an only child, mother died young and his father died before I was born. I think he had a few uncles or aunts, but they all lost contact when his father died."

"Damn," Cora whistles. "That sucks."

"Yeah. It sucks."

Stiles finishes his second cigarette and Cora drags him inside. She gets Lydia to buy them drinks, and Stiles drinks until Derek drags him away with a disapproving grumble.

 

Things don’t change at home after the wedding. Robert postpones the honeymoon for business, so Stiles’ mother is stuck at home, acting aimlessly lost. Stiles wants to feel sorry for her, but the bitter, dark part of him likes to think it’s karma.

Things don’t change for Stiles either. He still avoids food like it’s going to poison him from the inside out. He still avoids sleep like it’s going to consume him the moment he closes his eyes. He does homework during the night when his eyes hurt from reading, anything to keep him awake.

His mother flutters around the house, cleaning and moving, buying new pillows for the couch or vases filled with flowers. Suddenly, the house is filled with photo frames and ornaments, as if his mother is trying to make the house _theirs_ and not just Roberts. A small part of Stiles wonders if his mother is finally trying to replace Talia.

It’s three in the morning when Stiles finally finishes a paper for Harris. It’s not due for another week, but Stiles will do anything to keep him awake. Since the wedding, all Stiles has seen when he closes his eyes to sleep is his fathers reaching bloody hand. Stiles tosses the assignment sheet away as he closes down the finished essay. He has nothing left to do, he’s finished all his school work and he isn’t in the mood to read. He doesn’t want to draw either, because almost every time he puts his pencil to paper, Theo comes to mind and it just _hurts_.

Stiles slams his laptop lid shut and pushes away from the desk. The only light in his room is the moon that shines through the open window. Stiles gets up, walking towards the planes of glass that separate him from the forest surrounding the house. It’s a clear night, the sky a black blanket with glistening white specs, the air still with no gust or breath of wind.

Stiles grabs another hoodie and his packet of cigarettes before he flees his bedroom and tiptoes downstairs. He toes on his beaten up trainers, slipping the hoodie over his head and stepping out the front door without making a sound. It’s almost three-thirty, so he has no worries about anyone being awake and asking where he’s going.

He steps into the cool mid-May night air, and heads into the forest. This isn’t the first time he’s done it, but since he got out of hospital in February he has found comfort in late night walks. The silence of the forest, the chill of the air, the lack of _people_ , brings Stiles a new form of calm. He feels more peace than he’s done in all the memories he can remember. The familiar feelings of panic and paranoia that follow him like a chasing shadow disappear when he walks in the dark. It’s odd, almost ironic, that Stiles is more afraid of everything during the day, but finds comfort in walking in the dark woods at night. No one will understand it, but that’s no change.

Stiles steps over a log as he pulls out the small white cardboard box out of his pocket. He flips a cigarette up in-between his lips with ease and practice, flipping the lid of his Zippo lighter and igniting the end.

The familiar taste of nicotine brings the familiar relief as he drags and drags the cigarette. He walks aimlessly, mindlessly, his thoughts as scattered as the stars above him. He doesn’t know how long passes before he’s worked his way through half of his packet and his legs begin to get tired. His head is foggy from the lack of sleep and food, so he takes a seat on a log of a fallen tree and breaths slowly through his nose, begging himself not to pass out.

It passes, and soon Stiles is heading back to the house in time to see the sun begin to peak over the mountains surrounding Beacon Hills. He walks through the front door, kicks off his shoes and makes it back to his bedroom just before he hears Roberts alarm go off.

 

A week after the wedding, Stiles is walking home from Scott’s house, having gone over there with Lydia and the gang for pizza and movies. Stiles had spent the whole evening hugging with Erica because Scott is smitten with Kira and Lydia and Allison stayed together in melancholy for their missing boyfriends (Stiles was not sorry, and he didn’t lie about being bummed Jackson and Isaac weren’t there).

It’s dark when he walks home, a little past eleven. Scott offered to drive him home, but they’ve all been drinking and even Stiles isn’t stupid enough to drive under the influence of alcohol, nor does he want to be the reason Scott does.

As he walks down the dimly lit streets towards the Preserve, Stiles feels the goosebumps beginning to run up his arms. There’s a slight breeze, but the night is far from cold. Stiles is always cold, though, so the additional chill to his bones isn’t strange. He looks over his shoulder, feeing paranoid and alone, a complete contrast to how he normally feels on his late night walks.

There’s no one there. He blames the alcohol.

He walks on, and he begins to hear the familiar sound of approaching footsteps behind him as he reaches the long dirt track towards the Hale house.

He turns around abruptly, almost losing his footing in the fear that someone will _actually_ be there.

There’s still no one there, he’s still alone. He lets out a breath, shaking his head and scolding himself for being so childish.

He turns back around, and then he’s eating dirt.

A heavy weight suddenly collides with his side, tackling him roughly to the ground. He cries out as his head cracks against the concrete remains of the road, his vision flashing white. He feels dazed, everything happening a beat behind reality. He rolls onto his back, staring up as the dark spots dance dizzyingly across his vision.

Someone is leaning over him, sitting on his chest like a heavy ton of bricks. He blinks, chasing away the vignette casting shadows around the edges of everything. Everything is unfocused. He can feel something hot on his head, running down his face. Blood? He’s soaked with it. His head is throbbing, pulsating from his temple.

 _Definitely blood_ , he realises. He’s covered in his own blood.

The face above him comes into sharpened focus, and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat so hard he chokes on it.

Donovan grins down at him, baring his teeth, eyes wide and crazy.

"Long time no see, _Stiles_ ," he sneers, rolling his tongue as he hisses Stiles’ name like a serpent. "Where has my little toy-boy been all this time?"

"Get off me!" Stiles chokes, struggling fruitlessly to get out from under him. He’s trapped, locked down. He can’t breathe.

Donovan laughs. "How _sweet_. Did you really think you could just get away with running out on me like that? Do you have no manners, Stiles?"

Stiles whimpers, and he doesn’t care how pathetic it sounds. He’s panicking now more than he ever has before.

Donavan’s grin widens, stretching across his face like it will split it completely.

"You missed me, didn’t you, Stiles?" He taunts. "You missed being my little _whore._ You’re probably itching for another go, aren’t you?"

"N-no!" Stiles rasps.

Donavan chuckles, and the sound sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine. "Yes. Yes, Stiles. You missed me touching you. You missed my dick. You missed—"

"Stop!" Stiles shrieks, struggling even more.

He can’t listen to this.

Its like adding fuel to a fire. Donovan laughs like a wild man, insane and chilling. He leans back, throwing his head as he barks out bursts of laughter.

"You’ve gotten more feisty since I last saw you," he says, leaning down and cupping Stiles’ cheeks. "Shame really, I prefer you when you’re all drugged up, nice and docile. So pliant to anything I want, completely and blissfully _unaware_ ," He laughs again, "Oh, Stiles, you have _no idea_ how much fun we had that night."

Stiles shakes his head, clenching his eyes closed. Tears roll down his cheeks in shame and pain.

"And don’t even think about telling someone about all the fun we had together that night," Donovan goes on, "because I have pictures, Stiles. Proof of the little slut you really are and I will show anybody and everybody if you say _one word._ I’ll start with your mother, then Robert, then Derek, then Lydia. And then, everyone will know, and everyone will hate you for the little cocksucker you really are."

Stiles feels rage and fear blaze through his veins like burning hot gasoline. He can’t stop himself. He shifts, pulling his knees up and driving them hard into Donovan’s back.

The older boy grunts, gasping as Stiles’ knobby knee’s connect hard with the bones.

"You little fucker!" Donovan snarls, standing up abruptly and before Stiles can react, Donovan’s foot is coming down fast.

Pain explodes in his face, blood gushes from his nose like a broken water faucet. His vision goes white again and he opens his mouth to scream but he’s swallowing blood, drowning and choking on it. He expects more, he waits for more hits and abuse but the familiar sound of retreating steps reach his ears.

His stomach rolls, unstoppable waves of nausea crash against him. He rolls just as the acidic taste of vomit and stomach acid hit the back of his throat and he’s throwing up all over the leaves and twigs on the floor.

Stiles stays on the ground. He doesn’t move apart from to roll away from the pile of vomit. He’s crying, so hard his body hurts from the movement of the gut-wrenching sobs that rack through him. His head throbs, his face pulsating steadily as his nose bleeds. He must look like a wreck, covered in blood, tears and vomit. He feels dizzy when he finally manages to climb to his feet, shaky and disoriented. His vision swarms, the world tilting and he feels himself sway dangerously, using a nearby tree to support himself.

Stiles doesn’t know how he does it, but he manages to stumble home. He doesn’t know how long it takes him, and he’s thankful when he finds no one has waited up to make sure he’s made it home. His vision is blurry with tears when he climbs the stairs, hands bloody where they grip the railings.

His feet feel numb underneath him as he makes his way to his bedroom, a continuous pounding behind his eyes as his nose continues to bleed. His head feels fuzzy, but he’s pretty sure (he hopes) his nose isn’t broken.

He practically falls through the bedroom door, dropping to the carpeted floor, breath stuck in his throat.

Donovan found him. Donovan _attacked_ him.

The words ring in his head, tormenting him and humiliating him.

He has pictures.

He has _pictures_.

He’ll show everyone if Stiles tells - not that Stiles was going to tell anyone about _that_.

He crawls across the floor like something mangled out of a horror movie. He reaches under the mattress, feeling the cool blade brush underneath his finger tips and he pulls it out. He doesn’t hesitate to make small dashes across the inside of his bicep. His mother is always looking at his wrists now, so doing _it_ there would be too obvious. He’s going to look like hell in the morning, and the last thing he’ll need is his mother inspecting his wrists like a freak.

The familiar stings of the splitting skin brings him relief, his lungs finally fully expanding.

And just like that, all the good that everyone has worked so hard to accomplish, comes undone in a matter of seconds.

Stiles is still as broken as he was before.

*****

Derek is staring, eyes hard and calculating, as he watched Stiles, who sits at the kitchen counter shifting his spoon around in his bowl of untouched cereal. Derek wants to point out how in the whole 10 minutes he’s been sitting there, the younger teen hasn’t taken a single bite of the _Reese’s Puffs_ and milk he’d poured himself, but he can’t. He’s far too concerned by the black and blue bruise of Stiles’ swollen nose, or the watercolour bruises around both of his eyes, purple and stark against his sickly white skin that seems to have lost all of it’s colour that it gained from the hospital visit.

Derek eats his own breakfast almost aggressively, loudly crushing on the cereal with a closed mouth. His eyes are trained on the teenager before him, barely blinking.

"What happened to your nose?" He finally asks.

Stiles jumps as soon as he speaks, the silence around them being obliterated like a bullet striking glass. He looks up, and Derek wants to scream at the fear in the younger boys eyes. His body begins to tremble, hands shaking as they weakly clutch the spoon between his fingers.

He drops it into his bowl with a clatter and hides his hands under the breakfast bar top, out of sight. He swallows audibly before replying with a thin, small voice, "I tripped."

"You 'tripped'?" Derek echoes, unconvinced.

Stiles nods, looking down at his bowl. "On the way home from Scott’s."

Derek doesn't believe him. He knows Stiles is lying, but he also knows that Stiles has back-pedalled completely. Since the months Stiles has been around Derek, since he has finally began to open up to him, Stiles has lied less. He's been truthful and showed his vulnerability in different shades. Derek has slowly seen Stiles creep out of his shell, becoming more certain in himself and the support he has around him.

So, Derek certainly doesn’t believe Stiles when he says he 'tripped'. A trip doesn’t make your entire face bruise like _that_ , but Derek doesn’t press the subject further because as soon as Stiles must feel the spotlight hit him from Derek’s scrutiny, he practically shovels a mouthful of soggy cereal into his mouth to avoid the conversation. He grimaces as he does it, but Derek isn’t going to stand in the way of Stiles eating food just to hear about his bruised nose.

Claudia comes into the kitchen a moment later, looking tired and haggard. Her hair, normally gracefully tied back, is messy and loose, as if it’s been pulled on and shaken. Her clothes hang off her frame as if she’s lost weight, and Derek wonders for a moment if she has.

Stiles shuffles into the kitchen, going straight for the coffee maker for Derek’s father. She turns around at the counter while it brews, smiling when she sees Stiles at the breakfast bar and the bowl of food in front of him, but it immediately slips off when she sees his face. Her own face pales even more.

"Oh my, God!" She gasps. "What an earth happened, Stiles?"

"I fell," Stiles replies immediately, not looking up from where he’s back to stirring the sodden and soggy cereal in the milk. "I’m fine."

"Are you sure?" Claudia stresses, rounding the breakfast bar and taking Stiles’ gaunt face in the palms of her hands. "Do you think it’s broken. Derek, does it look broken?"

"It’s fine," Stiles jerks his face out of his mothers hands, looking back down at his bowl, averting his eyes and avoiding eye contact.

"Where did you fall?" Claudia asks, looking at Derek as if _he_ is going to give her an answer - or maybe a more _truthful_ answer. When Derek shrugs, Claudia looks back to Stiles and actually glares at the teen. "Stiles," she warns sternly, almost coldly, "what happened?"

"I _tripped_ ," Stiles repeats, spooning his cereal aimlessly. "I tripped on a rock down the dirt track and face planted the floor. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine, and—"

Claudia’s face turns hard in a split second. Her expression, originally clouded with concern morphs into an almost animalistic snarl.

"Don’t lie to me!" She snaps. "You’re always lying. I am your mother, you don’t lie to me!"

She screams the final word in Stiles’ face, having stormed forward in her mist of anger, their noses now inches apart. She’s breathing heavily, as if she’s just run a marathon, physically shaking.

Stiles’ face has gone white as he stares at his mother in shock.

"I— I didn’t. . . I fell, mom."

Claudia lets out a huff, turning away sharply. She goes to the coffee maker, filling the mug messily, coffee pouring out the sides before she picks it up and walks out, leaving the mess on the side and the pot out of the machine.

Derek had watched the whole commotion with a racing heart. He stares at the door Claudia storms out of, to the mess on the counter, and then to Stiles.

The teen looks no better than Derek feels in that moment, staring at the door like his mother is going to come back and apologies.

Stiles swallows audibly, standing up from the counter of visibly shaky legs. He’s blinking rapidly as if to chase away the tears, and Derek has never wanted to wrap someone up in a blanket and protect them before. But right now, as he watches Stiles carry his bowl to the sink on legs as weak as a new born fawns, he wants to do nothing else.

"I-I should. . . I should go and get dressed. I have therapy soon," Stiles mutters, barely audible as he looks down at his socked feet. Derek can’t bring himself to say anything else as Stiles shuffles out of the kitchen and disappears up the stairs.

*****

Stiles doesn’t know what happened to his mother that morning, but as he sits in the car later that morning beside her, he can feel the anger still rolling off her in tsunami waves, drowning Stiles in her fury and rage. She drives with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white, jaw clenched and lips thin.

Stiles waits for her to say something, to break the silence between them since the _incident_ in the kitchen. He doesn’t know where that came from. His mother isn’t like this, has _never_ been like this. She hasn’t snapped like that is a long time, and the look she had in her eyes that morning was _not_ his mother.

It was something else, something twisted and wrong, and Stiles hated it.

"Mom," he starts quietly. "Mom, please. Speak to me."

He see’s Claudia’s hands loosen around the wheel slightly, her jaw becoming unlocked as it sags just an inch.

"What do you want me to say, Stiles?" She asks with a sigh. She sounds tired.

And Stiles honestly doesn’t know. He just wants to hear her voice, to hear her say something that will over-power the sound of her snarl in his head, to distract from him the memory of her rage-filled eyes.

He can’t tell her the truth. He can’t tell anyone - even Derek or Scott. What happened with Donovan is to be never shared again. Stiles fell, that’s all anyone needs to know.

"I tripped, mom," he says, pulling a loose thread on his jumper sleeve. It’s cold today, despite being the end of May, so he’s layered up to block out the chill that relentlessly seeps into his bones. "Please, believe me—"

'You know what I believe?" Claudia starts, and Stiles can feel his hands begin to shake. "I believe you got into a fight. I believe you got yourself into another fight—"

"Another?"

"—and you think this is all some huge joke! It’s not, Stiles! Do you think people don’t talk about you in this town? 'That poor Stilinski child, look at him, so skinny!'" She screams, grabbing his wrist from his lap and squeezing the fragile bones.

Stiles yelps as pain shoots up his arm. "Mom! Stop—!"

"You’re an embarrassment, Stiles!" She shouts, the car jerking to the side slightly as she drives hazardously. "You embarrass me with your stupid fighting and rebellious attitude. Give it up!"

"Mom, please—"

She cuts him off again, ignoring his pleas as she takes a sharp left. "You’ve always been hard to handle, but now you’re just difficult. Do you know that? You’re a difficult child! No wonder your father fucking left!"

Stiles feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He stops fighting the tight hold around his wrist. He slouches in the chair, all the energy draining out of him as the words slap him around the face like a cold hand striking his cheek.

He can’t believe what his mother said. The words sink in, pulling him down like an anchor until he’s completely submerged under the metaphorical water that drowns him. He can’t draw in a breath. All he can do it stare at the woman in front of him. A woman he no longer recognises.

The car rolls to a stop outside the therapist building. Stiles has his back pressed against the car door, curled in small. He hasn’t moved, frozen stiff and terrified. When the car stops, Claudia lets out a sigh, the hand around Stiles’ wrist finally easing up. He slowly pulls it back, terrified she’s going to shoot out again and grab it.

Claudia isn’t looking at him. She’s looking dead ahead, out the windscreen and onto the road.

After a moment, Stiles finally risks moving. He grabs his rucksack and throws the door open.

"Dad didn’t leave," he rasps. "You kicked him out."

He leaps out, getting as far away from his mother as he can. His wrist aches and throbs, he pulls down the sleeve without looking at it. He doesn’t want to know if it’s bruised or not.

"Don’t bother picking me up," he says, voice sounding stronger, angrier. _Good_ , he decides, he is angry.

Claudia doesn’t look at him, she doesn’t reply, just stares. Stiles slams the car door shut, tears burning his eyes and his mothers words pounding around in his head, repeating themselves like a tripping record.

He falls through the door of the building, legs unsteady beneath him. He stumbles straight to the bathroom, skipping the reception. He’s shaking so much he sinks to the floor as soon as he slams the down behind him.

His wrist is red and purple, evident finger marks wrapping around the bony limb. Stiles feels sick. He barely has time to shot up and get to the toiler before he’s vomiting into the porcelain bowl.

Tears rolls down his cheeks. He’s hyperventilating. He can’t breath. He’s drowning with the weight of his mothers daunting and harsh words, sitting on him like a weight and pushing him further and further down under the water level. He closes his eyes, wishing for the world to fall away.

_No wonder your father fucking left!_

He sobs, whimpering when the words come flying back to him like a soaring stone, slamming into him and shattering him. The mention of his father always hurts, like pouring salt onto an open wound, and it only hurts more when it comes out in a harsh tone from his mother.

That woman in the car was _not_ his mother.

He sucks in a shaky breath. He aches, every muscle and bone screams with exhaustion as he climbs to his feet. He has to use the wall for support as he flushes the toilet, expelling the vile smell and then shuffles over to the sink.

His lungs burn when he splashes a handful of cold water over his face, washing away the tears and sweat. He looks up in the mirror, and almost sobs again.

His face is a mix of purple and red. His nose is swollen, both of his eyes purple and black. He runs his hand over his head, feeling the tender spot at the back. He had to shower when he got in the night before, his hair and skin caked with dried blood from where Donovan had tackled him, cracking his skull on a rock on the ground. It had soaked the collars of his jumpers by the time he’d gotten back to the Hale house and it took ages to stop the bleeding before he showered it all off. He had probably needed stitches, but Stiles has only ever done them on himself once, and it was a untidy, jagged mess on his wrist. He couldn’t tell his mother about it, and after what happened this morning, he’s sure glad he didn’t.

He’s been ignoring the throbbing headache radiating from the wound site at the back of his head all morning, but the argument with his mother and the panic attack have only multiplied the pulsating pain. He closes his eyes against the waves of nausea - he has nothing else to throw up.

His bruises eyes and white skin stare back at him. He looks like a ghost.

He looks at the clock on his phone and realises he’s three minutes late for his appointment. He’s learnt from past experiences that Morrell is a very precise person, and something she never is, is late. He splashes another wave of water over his face and dries it off with a strip of toilet paper, grabs his bag off the floor and dashes out of the bathroom.

Morrell is standing in the waiting room, hands clasped behind her back by the corridor that leads to her office.

She raises her eyebrows when she notices him coming out of the bathroom, scurrying across the reception towards her. She must see something in his appearance, be the bruised eyes and swollen nose, or something in his expression because a moment later, her eyes softens as he approaches her.

"Are you alright?" Morrell asks with calm concern.

Stiles nods. The action feels automatic, he feels numb.

"I’m fine," he says, but even he can’t believe it anymore.

 

His session ends just after four, the appointment having run later than either of them expected. When he walks out, Stiles doesn’t go home. He walks around the town, head down and earphones in so he can block out the hideous town. He listens to playlist after playlist, thoughts empty and head aching. He feels dead on his feet, so tired he actually _wants_ to sleep, but he refuses. He doesn’t want to go home. He doesn’t want to see his mother.

When it starts to get dark and Stiles knows its late, he heads to the twenty-four hour convenient store. He stuffs the packet of cigarettes he bought into his bag, pulling one out to put between his lips before he tucks away the others. Stiles had paid Greenberg, a guy he knows from school, extra for the packet. He always goes in when he knows Greenburg is working, mostly because the guy doesn’t give two craps about the law and will sell anything to anyone with a little bribe.

Stiles lights the end of the cigarette and breathes in, shoulders slouching when the familiar sooth of nicotine rushes through his system. He has plenty of cigarettes at home, but at the moment, that is the one place he is definitely avoiding.

His wrist twinges every time he moves it, a physical reminder of what happened and what he is avoiding. Stiles still isn’t quite sure what had happened. He just isn’t ready to face it all yet. He isn’t ready to face Robert, or Cora, or Derek, and especially not his mother.

He takes the long walk home, kicking the dirt under his feet with his scuffed up converse. His stomach aches and grumbles, still empty and hungry but he won’t give into the urges. He doesn’t even know why he does it anymore - he will never feel comfortable in his own skin. He only uses it as a form of painful comfort, like the blade to his wrist. He still feels sick from earlier anyway, that’s his excuse.

Stiles goes the back way through the Preserve, blinking slowly. He sways slightly with every step, the uneven ground underneath him making every step he takes unsteady. He takes puffs of his cigarette, relaxing as the nicotine buzzes through his blood like a soother. His mind, with has all day been rallied up and spinning, firmly slows enough for his to process everything that has truly happened.

Around him, the forest is dark and quiet. The birds that normally chirp and sweep from the trees are silent and still, as if they’re not even there - maybe they’re not.

Stiles doesn’t pass out, but he’s pretty sure he drifts to and from consciousness and he walks. He feels outside of his own mind, his thoughts blank and bare. He isn’t thinking as he walks. He breaths in the nicotine from the end of the rolled part with automatic movements. His hand moves without thought to his mouth and back down to his side like second-nature.

He comes back to his mind when he hears the familiar sound of footsteps behind him. His back goes stiff, every muscle tensing so fast it’s almost painful. But, he can’t feel anything apart from his heart pounding against his ribs. He can barely hear the footsteps over the sudden sound of blood rushing to his ears. The panic grips him with it’s cold, clawed hands.

"Hello, Stiles."

Stiles turns around suddenly, so fast he stumbles slightly, legs as weak as a new born fawn.

Donovan grins at him under a large hood from his zip-up hoodie. His smile is sadistic and dark.

"D. . . D-Donovan. . ." he whispers in disbelief. He doesn’t hear himself speak. Everything is crumbling, falling around him.

"Did you miss me? It’s barely been a day since we last saw each other," Donovan says, shrugging his hood down. "Hmm," he hums with a smirk, "bruises suit you."

"Get away from me," Stiles warns, and he can’t find it in himself to be pleased by how stern he sounds.

Donovan tuts, still smiling. "Don’t be stupid, Stiles. You know you don’t want me to go. I’m the only person in this world who actually wants you for something."

"Shut up," Stiles snaps. There are tears in his eyes, a wave in his voice. He’s shaking where he stands, but he wills himself to stand up for himself.

"You better watch that mouth, pretty boy, or do you want me to put it to good use?" Donovan smirks again. "We both know you like it rough."

"Stop it," Stiles whispers. "Stop it and _leave me alone!"_

Donovan laughs, manic and cackling. He shakes his head, punching the bridge of his nose as if the whole conversation is hilarious to him.

"I forgot you were a feisty one," he says. "Maybe it’s because you were so eager to lay down for me before."

Stiles shakes his head. This isn’t happening.

Donovans hand comes out of his pocket slowly, revealing what his hand is holding.

It’s pictures. A bunch of them tied with a rubber band around them.

Donovan’s grin widens. "Remember these? This is a lovely visual memory of our time together. I was thinking of giving them to your mother after I’m done with you."

Stiles’ heart is racing so fast he feels as though he’s about to pass out. He feels dizzy on his feet, vision unable to focus through the tears in his eyes.

And then, he’s catching sight of Donavan’s other hand and the object in it, and his heart finally sinks to the floor.

The knife reflects the moon above, shiny and sharp. Donovan’s sadistic smiles widens when he realises Stiles has seen it. He looks down it with pride, seeming pleased.

He pockets the photos, "What’d you say, Stiles? Wanna have some more fun?"

Stiles doesn’t have a chance to reply or react before Donovan is charging at him.

The older boy swings his arm, the silver blade of the knife glinting as it soars through the air towards him. Stiles ducks as fast as he can, curling in on himself and unintentionally driving his shoulder into Donovan’s gut.

The older boy grunts, stumbling backwards and Stiles does the only thing he can think: run.

He’s sprinting through the woods suddenly, feet pounding on the ground as loud as the blood roaring in his ears.

Something grabs his foot, pulling him down and his face cracks into the dirty forest floor. The hand clamped around his ankle is a bruising tightness, grinding the fragile bones together. He scrambles in the dirt, rolling onto his back in time to see Donovan climbing to his knees, knife in hand that isn’t grasping into Stiles’ ankle.

And Donovan is grinning, his eyes blown with adrenaline and madness. He’s panting, as if the thrill of this is making him breathless.

"You thought you could run?" Donovan snarls. "You thought you could get away from me, Stiles? You’re _mine,_ and you will always be mine!"

Stiles thrashes on the ground, struggling out of his grip. This is too real. This is too familiar.

He screams as loud as he can, begging for someone to come and help him.

No one does.

Donovan is coming closer, raising his fist with the handle of the knife clutched within. Stiles kicks out with blind panic. He drives his foot directly into Donovan’s chest as hard as he can, the hit apparently surprises Donovan enough that he jerks back and crashes roughly onto his back.

Donovan makes a suddenly choking sound, and Stiles scrambles up, scurrying back on his hands and feet to get away from the older teen. He lets out a whimper when his back hits a tree trunk, finalising his quick escape. He’s crying, uncontrollable and hard.

But, Donovan isn’t getting up. His breathing is harsh and choked. He sputters on the floor, and thats when Stiles finally catches sight of the knife embedded into the older teens chest.

Stiles is frozen stiff, eyes glued to the knife. For a long moment, he can’t move. He can feel the tremors racking his body, shaking so hard he feels like he could come apart at the joints.

Donovan keeps jerking. His face is turned towards the sky but his eyes are locked with Stiles’. They’re cold and staring, looking directly at Stiles.

Somehow, Stiles finds the strength to climb to his feet, stumbling when he tries to move his legs underneath him. Tears blur his vision. He stands over Donovan for a moment, looking down at the spreading blood on his t-shirt, glistening in the low light. The knife of the handle sticks out, blood surrounding it.

Stiles drops to his knees, unable to lower himself slowly. His hands hover in the air, shaking and trembling. He’s breathing shallowly through his mouth, meanwhile Donovan breathes slowly, no panic in his breath despite _him_ being the one with a knife in his _chest_.

Stiles manages to move his hand to the blade, slowly clasping onto the handle. His eyes meet Donovan’s to find them already watching him, not a glint of fear in his expression.

He rips the knife out of the chest with a disgusting squelch. Donovan sucks a startled breath, grunting when Stiles presses his hands down on the gushing wound.

"I’m sorry," Stiles chokes. "I’m so sorry."

Donovan says nothing. A dribble of crimson blood runs from the corner of his mouth, staining his colourless skin. His lips curl up as if he’s going to snarl, but he never makes it. A moment later, his eyes are clouding over and his head drops back down into the dirt.

Stiles sees the exact moment his chest stops moving.

The exact moment he _dies._

The sob Stiles releases is completely unintentional, yet he can’t stop the rest from coming. His hands are slick with blood when he pulls them away from the dead body, shaking so fast they’re practically blurs.

He can’t take his eyes off Donovan’s face, the older boys mouth slack and open eyes wide and unseeing. _Forever_ unseeing.

He’s dead.

Donovan is _dead_ , and Stiles killed him.

The word _murderer_ ricochets inside his head so fast it knocks the breath out of him.

He scurries back, desperate to get away from the cold, dead body of his previous abuser.

He feels a sting in his hand and when he looks down, he realises he’s still holding the knife, the blade pressing and slicing into his skin. He drops it with a gasp, looking at his palm and the shallow, red gash. Blood seeps out, mixing the blood already there.

Donovan’s blood.

Donovan. Who he _killed._

He’s going to be arrested.

He’s going to prison.

The rational part of Stiles’ brain tells him he needs to call the police. It was self defence, he won’t get charged.

The panicked, irrational part of Stiles’ mind screams at him to run. He needs to hide Donovan, to never speak of it again.

Stiles killed someone, and the blood on his hands is never going to wash away again. No one will forgive him, no one will _listen_ because Donovan was right: he was the only person who wanted something from Stiles.

His breath is so shallow Stiles is surprised he’s still conscious. His lungs burn brutally, but he can’t draw in a big enough breath. Everything is crushing down on top of him so fast and so sudden that he can barely organise his thoughts.

His phone sits heavy in his back pocket before he pulls it out. His fingers shake so hard the phone clatters out of his hands a few times before he manages to successfully turn on the device.

Moments after all the notifications come rushing through, his phone starts ringing.

It’s Derek.

Stiles sobs, looking down at Donovan’s crumpled body across from him. He needs to do something.

He swipes answer and holds the phone to his ear with a trembling hand.

"H-hello. . ."

"Stiles, you need to come to the hospital," Derek greets. His voice is hard and stern, but almost slightly high with hysteria.

It takes a moment for his word to finally sink into Stiles’ panicked and sluggish mind.

"Wh. . . w-why?"

"It’s your mother," Derek replies. "There’s been an accident."

 

— _tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you hate me yet?


	13. after the fall

There is no easy way to tell someone they are dying, much less tell their family the devastating fate.

Claudia had crashed the Volvo into a lamp post on the outskirts of town that afternoon, knocking herself out in the process. Someone else had found her, still unconscious and called an ambulance. They’d done tests to scan for head injury, which lead to further questions and tests.

They gave her the diagnosis twenty-five minutes before Stiles had burst through the ER doors, barely breathing from the sprinting from the Preserve and the panic from Derek’s words grinning every inch of his skin.

Melissa had caught him when he crumbled, knees hitting the floor hard, but the pain was barely registered. He was too lost in his mind, thoughts chaotic, voices too loud. He could hear the people talking around him, but it was as if he was underwater. He was drowning without water, sputtering for breath and gasping like a fish on land.

Hands cupped his cheeks, warm against his cold skin. He could feel hands on his back, on his shoulders, holding him up. He felt boneless, practically limp in the persons arms.

When he finally found the stretch to make his eyes focus, seeing through the tears, he found Melissa and Derek crouched in front of him, Cora hovering behind him with her hand over her mouth. Derek’s lips were moving. He was saying something but Stiles still couldn’t hear him.

Until it all came rushing back, coming in parts and ripped blurts of sound

". . .iles? Stiles, love, listen to me. . . need to calm down. . . mother is not hurt. . . bumped her head. Okay? I need you to calm down, Stiles," Melissa’s voice was as soft as silk in his ear, words so gentle they gradually tug him back to reality.

His breathing was raspy and shaky, but then he was taking in large gulps. His lungs burned behind his ribs, quivering from the lack of oxygen.

"Stiles, sweetie, are you back with us?" She asked. It was her hands on his face, thumbs stroking his sharp cheekbones. Derek was holding him up, hands rubbing up and down his back.

Stiles had nodded numbly, so small it was practically a twitch, but it was good enough for Melissa.

"Good," she said, "Doctor Morris is going to be out soon, okay? He’s going to tell you whats going on."

Stiles’ tongue was heavy in his mouth. "M. . . my m-mum—"

"I know, kiddo," Melissa soothed, then wiped away a tear that rolled down his cheek. Stiles didn’t know if he was crying because of his mother, or the panic attack, or because of the blood and grime still buried under his nails. "Everything is going to be okay."

Everything is not okay.

The doctor tells Stiles the news the same way he was told about his father. Slow and gentle, like easing a plaster off the skin. The doctors words are thin and slippery, unintentionally falling through the cracks Stiles’ last remaining ounce of sanity, like sand through his fingers.

His mother is dying. Frontotemporal Dementia, they call it. Stiles has no clue what they’re talking about, his mind going numb as they speak to him in what sounds like different languages. All he can hear are the words screaming in his mind.

Dying.

Alone.

Orphan.

He’s sitting in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, knee’s up to his chest. Derek has picked him up off the floor before the doctor had come out, and older teen now standing beside him with his hand on his shoulder while Melissa is crouched in front of him, fingers stroking his own in futile comfort. Stiles hopes she doesn’t notice the dirt and dried blood on them.

Robert takes the words right out of everyones minds. "Dementia? But she. . . she had a _car crash?_ How does that give someone dementia?"

"The car crash hasn’t caused the illness," the doctor replies. "It seems Claudia has developed this over time, and it was only because of the minor head injury that she sustained in that crash that we were able to discover it."

"Dementia," Cora echoes with a frown. "That’s memory loss, right?"

The doctor nods silently.

"Her memories are fine," Stiles doesn’t realise he’s speaking until the words are tumbling out of his mouth.

"Memory loss is actually one of the last symptoms of Frontotemporal Dementia," the doctor explains. "The first symptoms are personality and behavioural changes. Has she been. . . acting out of character recently?"

Stiles feels the sting on his cheek again. The harsh whip of her hand slaps against his face. He can hear her shrieks in his ears, clouding over the reality around him. He refuses to look up at Derek, knowing he had witnessed a fraction of Claudia’s drastic change.

"I think the question we should be asking is how long does she have?"

Stiles flinches from the question like he’s been struck by the words.

The doctor sighs, as if he was expecting and dreading the question.

"Claudia’s dementia seems to have progressed fast. She’s already in the later stages, but dementia is such a drastic and unmeasurable illness of the brain. She could have decades to live, but she could also only have years, or months. It’s hard to tell."

Silence stretches.

"What do we do now?" Derek asks.

"We’re going to keep Claudia here for a few days, monitor her behaviour and watch for any symptoms. In the meantime, we’re going to have a nurse come in and discuss the next steps regarding her care, medication and possible residency at homes—"

"Homes?" Robert echoes. "Claudia isn’t going anywhere apart from _our_ home!"

"Please, Mr Hale—"

"This isn’t up for discussion," Robert snaps, his voice almost as cold as the hospital floor. "Claudia is my wife, and I will be damned if she is being dumped in a care home like an invalid!"

"Dad, we don’t even—" Derek tries, but Robert runs his words over.

"I won’t—"

"Dad!" Cora shouts, and Robert looks at her in shock. "Just _shut up_ , okay? We haven’t even seen Claudia, or spoken to this nurse. Stop making decisions already."

"Mr Hale, I understand you are worried," the doctor explains. "This is a very confusing time, and you nor I know all the answers yet. But, I can assure you, we are going to do everything we can to make sure Claudia is in no pain or discomfort while she is with us."

"Can. . . can we just see her now?" Robert asks, shoulders slumping. For once, the man looks tired.

Stiles is trembling so hard the plastic legs are rattling audibly on the floor. His breath is coming out in quiet pants, lungs refusing to expand enough for him to breathe in a big gulp. His head feels like it’s pumped full with helium, light and floaty. He closes his eyes against the pulsating throb behind his eyes, and Donovan’s face flashes in the front of his mind.

His fists clench as he muffles a gasp, eyes snapping open but the images don’t fade.

He can’t even imagine to think what everyone might do if they knew, what they would think of him and what he has done. He wonders how disappointed everyone would be. How disappointed his father would be.

The photos sit heavy in his pocket, burning through the fabric and scorching his leg. He’d taken them out of Donovan’s jacket after he’d managed to pull himself together enough for his hands to stop shaking so he could actually grab them.

Donovan’s body had gone cold quickly. His eyes were still open, staring unseeingly at the black sky above. Blood seeped out of the wound relentlessly, soaking his clothes and creating a pool underneath him, sinking slowly into the grass and forest ground.

Stiles had been moving on autopilot when he dragged Donovan’s dead body further into the dark woods.

He can still feel the dirt between his fingers from where he racked them through the ground, helplessly and desperately digging to hide the body he is responsible for. He remembers the panic, mind clouded and eyes unfocused as they scrabbled at the dirt to make it _move._

Everyone is rising to their feet suddenly. The doctors lips are moving but the words don’t reach Stiles’ ears. He can’t hear anything apart from the blood roaring in his head.

Derek’s hand squeezes his shoulder as everyone starts to move, following the doctor down the hallway. Stiles doesn’t know where they’re going, and he doesn’t have the strength to manage facing his mother yet.

His thoughts are scrambled, his mind is spinning. He feels dizzy, so lightheaded and shaky. His limbs feel numb, his head feels too heavy for his neck. He trembles as he stands, watching them all away but he can’t force his legs to move. His vision blurs double and he feels himself sway just as Derek and Melissa turn around to look at him, their faces twisting into deep frowns. He see’s Derek open his mouth, his lips moving the clear silent words, "Stiles, are you okay?" that Stiles doesn’t hear over the howling in his ears.

But he’s not. He’s not okay, and he doesn’t know if he ever will be again.

Stiles doesn’t realise he’s running until he’s falling out the ER doors and stumbling down the stairs. His hand grips the banister to break his fall and prevent him from face planting the concrete sidewalk, and then he’s running as fast as his shaking legs can carry him. He has to get _away_.

The rain pours around him, drenching his clothes within minutes as he sprints through the towns streets. It’s dark, deep into the hours of the night now. He doesn’t know if Derek is following him, if Melissa has told anyone about his cowardice flee, but he knows he doesn’t care.

Stiles doesn’t know where he’s heading as his converse-covered feet carry him through the silent neighbourhoods until he’s standing outside a house that he knows so well, a house he was never expecting to come back to.

The house stands on the quiet road, the lights from the inside illuminating the front garden and wide driveway. The front door opens without Stiles even approaching from where stands on the edge of the sidewalk, rain hammering down on him.

Theo steps out of the house. Stiles can’t see his face from where he’s standing, the rain blurring his vision and stinging his eyes.

"Stiles?" He hears Theo call, but it’s like he’s paralysed, unable to move. His feet are rooted to the ground, tied and trapped. Theo is walking down the drive, the rain darkening his clothes as it soaks him almost instantly. "Stiles, what are you doing here?"

The words choke him. He doesn’t know why he’s here. He doesn’t know anything anymore.

Theo is standing right in front of him now, and Stiles can finally see his face. He can see his framed, shadowed face that’s structured with bold bones and his neatly styled hair that’s flopping on his forehead because of the rain.

"Stiles, are you okay?" Theo asks, and his voice is so _fucking_ soft and gentle, curling around Stiles like comforting arms, and he _hates_ that he needs it.

"I. . ." Stiles chokes, the word coming out in a sob. He’s gasping for breath that comes too short. "I don’t. . ."

"Hey," Theo interrupts shortly, taking slow steps closer, his hand reaching out. Stiles flinches when it touches his shoulder, but he doesn’t pull away. "Come on. Come inside, get out of the rain."

Stiles lets the older teen lead him into the house, hands supporting his shoulders as he’s ushered through the front door and into a bathroom. He’s only half-minded as he lets Theo sit him down on the closed toilet seat, the older teen moving and turning on the shower.

"You need to warm up," Theo says. "I’ll go get you some dry clothes, okay?"

Stiles doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t need to because Theo is already leaving the room and coming back in with a handful of clothes before Stiles has even looked up from the floor.

"I’ll stay outside, okay?" Theo says, standing by the door after he’s put the clothes down on the sink side. "Warm up before you get sick."

Stiles doesn’t know how long he sits there, listening to the water run and disappear down the drain. Eventually, he gets up, shakily striping his sodden clothes that stick to his colourless skin like a second skin. He doesn’t know if he’s shaking from the cold or from everything that has happened.

He’s beginning to realise that he doesn’t know anything anymore.

He finds himself sitting in the shower tray, knees up to his chest and arms wrapped around them to make himself impossibly smaller. Numb isn’t a strong enough work to describe how he feels - or technically, how he _doesn’t_ feel.

Dirt and blood is still stuck under his nails. He’d wiped them as much as he could on his black jeans, just to get it off his hands, but copper red still sits in the creases in his palms, the beds of his nails. He’s surprised no one has picked up on it yet, but he’s grateful. He doesn’t think he has the energy to make up a lie. He stares at his hands for a long time. Water drips on them, washing away the rusty flakes and crumbs of dirt drop by drop. He can’t take his eyes off it. The slice on his palm is deep, but not worryingly so. The blood had clogged around the wound enough to stop the bleeding, but the shower has opened it again, causing the water to run red. He blinks, the sight making his stomach churn and Donovan flash behind his eyelids.

He doesn’t think he can live with this.

He gets out after the water has gone cold. Theo brought him a pair of thick sweatpants and a soft sweatshirt. They’re both too big for stiles, which isn’t a surprise, and he manages to find some comfort in the clothes that are so warm and snug despite barely clinging to his bony frame.

When he steps out of the bathroom, he’s surprised to find Theo isn’t waiting outside the door. He feels somewhat more clear headed, as if the steam from the hot water had pushed away the fog blocking his thoughts. He puts his wet clothes over the banister to dry and heads down the hall.

Stiles has been in the Raeken residence hundreds of times before, before and during their relationship. He spent more time at Theo’s than at his own home. It feels like wasted hours now, and Stiles doesn’t even want to wonder if he misses it.

Theo is in the kitchen, his back to Stiles when the younger teen walks in.

He turns around without stiles having to make a sound, instantly flashing a smile. "Hi."

Stiles nods in greeting, not trusting his voice. If he opens his mouth, he doesn’t know what will come out.

"Do you want something to drink?" Theo asks. "Coffee? Water? I think we might have some lemonade. . ."

Stiles shrugs, and even the minuscule action feels exhausting.

Theo smiles again. "Water it is then."

He turns towards the sink, taking a glass out of the cupboard on the wall.

"I’m sorry," Stiles whispers finally, and Theo turns to him slowly, like he’s facing a snarling animal. "I. . . I don’t know why I came here."

 _I don’t know why I came to_ you.

The smile on Theo’s face doesn’t slip. "It’s okay."

"It’s not," Stiles replies, but he doesn’t add to that or offer any further explanation.

It’s _never_ going to be okay again, because tonight, Stiles has become a murderer and a future orphan all in the space of one hour. And now, he’s standing in the kitchen of his ex-boyfriend, who’s best friend raped him.

The best friend who is now _buried under fresh dirt._

The same dirt that is buried deep under Stiles’ fingernails. Despite the shower, he can still feel it there. A lifetime of showers is never going to wash away the blood and dirt that has stained his hands.

"Stiles?" Theo breaks through the spiral of thoughts Stiles is stumbling down. "What happened?"

"I don’t want to talk about it," Stiles whispers, and apparently it’s enough as Theo is nodding firmly and pouring them glasses of water.

"Here," he says, passing it over and not mentioning it when Stiles puts it straight down.

Derek calls him later that night, tone sounding like he’s trying to contain his anger and miserably failing at it. Stiles lies and tells him he’s with Scott, and for them all to leave him alone. Derek doesn’t protest, only tells him that they’re all going home and his mother is staying at the hospital.

Him and Theo stays downstairs, moving into the living room and sitting at opposite ends of the couch. The TV plays absently in the background, and Stiles doesn’t need to look at Theo to know he also isn’t encased in what the TV is playing.

"Stiles?" Theo asks after a long, pregnant pause of silence.

Stiles raises his head from where he’s picking at his nails, his eyes and mind betraying him into thinking there is still dirt underneath them. Theo is looking at him with such innocence that Stiles doesn’t know if he wants to smack it off his face or melt underneath it.

"Do you still love me?"

The question startles Stiles so much he forgets his breath.

"I. . ." the answer is clear as a neon sign turned on in the dead of night, but forcing the words out of his mouth proves to be harder than he imagined. Many sleepless nights have answered this question for him. He can feel strangers hands on him, touching his skin, burning with every touch. The scars on his arms twinge in memory under the soft fleece of the jumper. He knows the answer, but he doesn’t like it.

"No," he finally says, and he’s never been more proud of the solidity of his tone. "I don’t love you anymore. I. . . I haven’t loved you for a long time."

Theo only nods and doesn’t mention it again.

An hour later, Theo falls asleep on the end of the couch.

Another hour after that, Stiles changes back into his own clothes, which are still damp and cold, and leaves the house.

He walks with heavy feet back across town, remembering Derek’s words when he told Stiles that they were all leaving his mother at the hospital to go home. His mother has betrayed him countless times, but as Stiles walks back to the hospital where the woman lays, he reminds himself that you only get two biological parents, and Stiles is already down to one.

Soon, he will be down to none, and he will truly be alone.

His mother is sleeping when he gets there. He watches her from the doorway for a long minute, unsure if he should enter further in fear his mother might wake up and continue to scream at him like she did earlier that day.

Stiles is shaking when he finally builds the courage to sit in the chair beside the bed. The chair rattles on the floor as he drops down in it with slow, hesitant movements. The room is silent, minus the regular beating and bleeps of the heart monitor by the bed. It’s too quiet. Stiles’ thoughts talk so loud and so fast he soon finds tears rolling down his cheeks. He doesn’t know how much he’s cried in the last 24 hours, but he must be border-lining drained by now.

He takes his mothers hand, who’s skin is almost as cold as his, and whispers with shaky, crumbling words, "I’m sorry."

*****

Claudia didn’t remember anything when she woke up with Robert at her side. Her recent husband had taken her hand and explained, in an uncharacteristically soft voice, that she had been in a car accident. No one else was hurt but herself, and at the news, Claudia wasn’t sure if that brought her comfort or not.

She hadn’t quite believed the words that came out of Robert’s mouth, but she couldn’t exactly argue it happening as she laid in the hospital bed attached to a handful of monitors. When the doctor had revealed the dementia, Claudia hadn’t reacted. She’d simply stared, mouth agape and lax, no breath drawing in her lungs that had seemed to deflate inside her shattering chest.

 _She’s got dementia_ , her mind told her. She’s sick, and she’s dying.

She’d cried in Robert’s arms, clutching Derek’s hand on the other side of the bed. She’d cried for a long time, until her chest was aching and her sobs were dry. Her eyes stung every time she blinked, and Robert had handed her a cup of water with a straw when the wails had quieted down.

Claudia had never imagined her fate would be sealed so soon. She’d never imagined this news was going to be announced yet. She’s supposed to have years, decades of free and active life left, yet there she was; dying in hospital bed.

Claudia hadn’t realised until just before she fell back asleep hours later, a trailing after thought, that Stiles was never there.

And he’s the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes again. She doesn’t need to look to the window to know the sun is rising and that morning has come. Instead, she drills her entire focus on the small body curled against the bed, head laying on the blankets beside her hip, brown hair tickling her bare arm, and the hand loosely holding her own.

Stiles looks more frail than her. She can see red around his closed eyes, the dried tear tracks on his cheeks and the absence of colour in his skin. Despite him being asleep, her son looks far from peaceful.

A tear rolls down her cheek, cold and heavy as the realisation settles in her chest: because it’s her boy, her little, broken boy who looks like _he_ is the one who’s dying, not Claudia.

And Claudia doesn’t know how she’s meant to leave Stiles behind. Her boy, who’s been through too much already, doesn’t need this on top. He’s proven enough that he had took John’s death hard, so hard that Claudia sometimes wonders if that was all that has been driving her son into an early grave, or if there is more that is making Stiles like this. Sometimes, she thinks he’s getting better. She thinks the time of sadness and hard eyes are over, that her son will start eating again, laughing again, but the hopeful thoughts are always crushed with another argument, another sight of his deathly thin body and hard, cold eyes.

Claudia isn’t ready to die, and she knows Stiles isn’t ready to be alone. She loves Robert, but not a psychic in the world could guarantee Claudia that her husband will care for her son after she is gone. Stiles is a handful, and he hasn’t exactly made an effort to connect to Robert since they met.

For a short moment, Claudia wonders what life might have been like if she’d never left John, if she’d never have cheated and if he hadn’t been at the station that night with Stiles. She wonders what Stiles would be like now if none of those things happened.

He has already witnessed one parent die, and Claudia will never forgive herself for allowing Stiles to watch his own father get shot. As much as she resented John at the time, she knows what happened that night has scarred Stiles for life in ways she will never be able to understand.

She rubs Stiles’ lax hand, squeezing it gently and wishing something good will finally happen to her boy.

*****

"Do you want to walk about it?"

"What’s there to talk about?"

"You found out your mother has a dreadful disease, Stiles," Marin Morrell says. "We have plenty to talk about."

"You can say she’s dying. Using different words doesn’t make it any less real."

"I know, I’m sorry, but you’re here because you need to talk."

"No, I’m here because my mother doesn’t know how to deal with me since my father was killed."

Morrell is quiet for a long moment, her expression blank and calm as usual. Stiles hates it.

"Have you been sleeping?" She asks, finally. "You look very tired, and you’ve lost weight too."

"I’m fine," Stiles says hotly. He can feel the panic filling him like a bucket, pooling in his stomach with an ice, cold chill.

"You’re fine?" Morrell echoes, her thinly trimmed eyebrows twitching up slightly, as if challenging him.

"I am fine," Stiles practically snarls the words, leaning forward as he speaks them slowly. His heart is pounding so fast and so hard in his chest, justing punching to burst out.

"Define 'fine' for me, Stiles," Morrell requests, tilting her head.

Stiles swallows thickly.

"I. . ." he cuts himself off with a choke. His throat seizes up and his breath catches. He can feel the tears forming in his eyes and quickly, he ducks his head so Morrell can’t see him blinking them away.

He’s fine. He’s told himself enough times now, and if he says it a little bit more, hopefully enough people will believe it to be true.

"Stiles," Morrell says softly - too soft for her normal persona, "I known I’ve said this before, but you need to understand that it’s okay not to be okay. You don’t have to be fine all the time. What did I tell you to tell yourself whenever you feel like it’s getting to hard?"

"If you’re going through hell, keep going," Stiles murmurs, words coming out of his mouth on autopilot. He talks into his lap, eyes on the floor.

"Exactly," Morrell replies. "You’re going through hell, Stiles, but if you keep going, you will come out the other side."

Stiles finally raises his head as he whispers, voice as fragile as a thin sheet of glass, "What if the other side isn’t any better?"

"It’s always gets better," Morrell assures, "but only if you let it."

 

Things don’t get better. After Claudia is diagnosed, everything seems to go downhill very fast. Stiles has to battle the aftermath of Donovan in secret. He can’t tell anyone, but his mind is constantly dragged back to the decaying body in the woods. He battles his demons in silence, and for something that Stiles has been doing for a long time, he’s never found it this hard.

Claudia’s condition becomes so much more profound after they’re told about it. The symptoms that had previously just gone over their heads are now slapping them straight in the face. Little things, like placing dishes in the wrong cupboard, or not doing the laundry for weeks on end are standing out. And then, other things, things they’d noticed but didn’t think anything of become a thousand times more obvious: like her change in appetite, or sleeping in in the mornings when normally she is the first up.

And throughout everything, Claudia doesn’t notice her own changes. She acts as if nothing is wrong, as if nothing has changed, as if she hasn’t been diagnosed with a chronicle disease that is going to shrink her brain into nothing but a shadow of herself.

Stiles is am impulse stressor. Two days after his mother comes home from hospital, he doesn’t even bother sleeping despite only having gotten an hour a few days before that was riddled with the haunting face of Donovan. Instead, he stays up, swallowing Adderall like candy to keep himself awake as he scouts the internet.

Everything he reads comes true.

His mother changes into a whole new person, and then turns back into her old self like a flip of a switch. There is no pattern, no warning for this switch. Stiles doesn’t know which mother he is waking up to.

She sleeps more. Stiles comes home from school to find her on the sofa, laying in her pyjamas well into the late afternoon, scoffing down a packet of biscuits and practically bathing in food wrappers. Stiles watches her helplessly, unable to stop her or move her as she hoovers down the unhealthy food like a doppelgänger of his previous mother.

The binge eating isn’t even the worst change. As she sleeps more during the day, she becomes energised at night. As Stiles lays awake, his mind swirling with dead faces and his eyes throbbing from the endless stream of tears, Claudia very often gets up.

One night, when Stiles is laying on his back, staring up at his plain ceiling, his ears start ringing. It takes him a long moment to realise the ringing isn’t another psychological punishment his mind is tormenting him with, but in fact a loud alarm blaring through the house.

His bedroom door suddenly bursts open and a bulky, black silhouette stands in the doorway.

"What are you doing?" Derek shouts over the sound of the blaring alarm. He steps into the room, rushing towards the bed. "Get up! It’s the fucking fire alarm!"

Large hands throw back the covers and blankets, roughly dragging him out of his bed. Stiles wants to make a snarky comment about how Derek’s lucky he doesn’t sleep naked or this would be much worse for both of them, but his mouth feels num, tongue a weight of lead behind his teeth. Derek is pushing him out of the room, and the sound of his bedroom door is slamming behind them makes him flinch violently. He has to resist recoiling when Derek’s hand runs up and down his arm in a futile attempt to comfort him.

The alarm is still blaring in his ears when they get downstairs to find Claudia standing in the kitchen archway, her apron around her neck and flour caking her hands. The kitchen behind her is full of smoke, glowing slightly from the lights inside.

"Mom?" Stiles croaks. "W-what. . . whats going on?"

Claudia turns to them, her face calm as if she wasn’t just looking into a room of smoke. "I was making us all pancakes."

"At three in the morning?" Derek asks from behind him.

Claudia’s reply is cut off by the fire alarm stopping abruptly. A figure walks out of the wall of smoke, revealing a dirty and pissed off looking Robert. He glares at them all out of the corner of his eyes, huffing exasperatedly.

"Dad," Derek says, waiting for Robert to look up from where he’s rubbing his charred hands clean. "Have you put out the fire."

"There wasn’t a fire," Robert replies cooly, looking down again. Stiles can see his jaw clenched, his teeth practically grinding together. "Claudia just set the fucking alarms off!"

Stiles feels his heart race in his chest. He looks to his mother, who’s face has dropped as Robert’s voice rises, booming through the now silent mansion.

"I just wanted to make us all breakfast—"

"It’s three in the morning, Claudia!" Robert interrupts curtly. "It’s _nighttime_ , everyone is sleeping! No one wanted breakfast!"

Stiles wants to snap at Robert. He wants to tell him not to talk to his mother like that. A little bit of preprogrammed pride and protection over his last parent is still sparking inside of him, despite how stomped on it has been over the years of his mother’s neglect and choices.

He doesn’t say anything though. The tired ache in every fragment of his body weighs him down and he realises then, that everything Robert is shouting, he wants to shout too.

His mother has tears in her eyes. "I’m sorry, but—"

"No 'but’s!" Robert roars, and it’s Stiles who tenses at the sound that echoes around them. "This is unacceptable, Claudia! If I’m tired during my meetings tomorrow and I lose the deal I have been working _months_ to get, you will be sorry!"

"Dad!" Derek shouts, and instantly, the atmosphere drops. Robert snaps his head towards his son, face red and angry. It washes away the moment Derek murmurs, "Enough."

Robert slouches where he stands as if Derek’s words physically pulled the rage from his veins. He looks down at the cloth he’s using to wipe his black hands.

"I’m sorry," Claudia whispers brokenly.

Robert sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he’s overcome with a sudden headache - Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if he has.

"It’s okay," he murmurs, opening his eyes and approaching Claudia with slow, fatigue-ridden steps. "I’m sorry for shouting. Why don’t you go upstairs and get cleaned up. I’ll be up in a minute when I’ve tidied up."

Claudia nods solemnly, only taking a step before Robert stops her, holding out his hand.

Claudia looks at him, frowning, and opens her mouth to speak when Robert cuts her short. "Give me the spoon, Claudia."

Stiles hadn’t even realised his mother was holding a wooden spoon, caked in batter, and apparently, Claudia didn’t realise either - or she didn’t remember. She hands Robert the spoon before shuffling across the floor, head bowed and disappearing upstairs.

Robert sighs again when she’s gone. Derek steps around Stiles from where they’re still standing at the bottom of the stairs, approaching his father while Stiles stands stock-still, frozen in place as if his bones have been replaced with ice and his feet are glued to the floor. Numb doesn’t even begin to describe the way he feels. Its like he’s being eaten from the inside by nothing but a black hole, being swallowed completely.

Derek puts a hand on his fathers shoulder. "Go upstairs with her," he says. "Make sure she’s alright. We’ll clean this up for you."

Robert nods after a moment of silent thinking. "Don’t forget the close the windows when all the smoke is out."

"We won’t," Derek nods, and Robert nods again, as if that’s all he’s got the energy to do.

He walks slowly past Stiles, them both mirroring each others bone-wary, tired eyes. They exchange no words, no smiles, just the single look that shows they’re both feeling just as worried, as tired and as scared as each other. And then, the moment is gone, and Robert is walking away up up the stairs, leaving Derek and Stiles alone.

Stiles walks silently behind Derek into the still smoky kitchen. As Derek leans over the sink to open the large windows, Stiles looks at the mess his mother has created: batter and flour spilled on the floor and breakfast bar, cracked open eggs oozing over the edge and dripping rhythmically onto the floor tiles. It’s a mess, and something his mother would never have created a year ago.

Stiles grabs a washcloth from the sink and begins wiping the egg off the counter, floor and cupboard doors.

Him and Derek clean in silence, and after an hour, when they’re done and dumping the soggy, dirty cloths into the washer, Derek finally speaks.

"Were you sleeping?" He asks.

Stiles looks up from where he’s looking at the washer dials, not meeting Derek’s eyes.

He shrugs.

Derek sighs softly. "You look like you haven’t slept in weeks."

Stiles just shrugs again, not trusting his voice. He looks down at his hands, they feel slippery and wet, like they’re still covered in something. He dashes to the sink, washing away the sudden sight of the red staining his skin. He doesn’t see Derek’s eyes following him, his face deep in a frown as he watches the younger teen scrub his hands roughly.

He steps up behind the teen.

"Stiles, it’s gone," he says, but Stiles doesn’t hear him. He keeps scrubbing, even when it starts to hurt and sting. He has to get it _off_. "Stiles! The batter is all gone, you’re hands are clean!"

Large hands, clean and dry, dart in suddenly and pull Stiles’ apart, away from the waterfall of the tap. He takes the sponge Stiles is scrubbing with, dumping it in the basin and grabbing a dry towel.

"Jesus, Stiles," he mutters as he dabs the tender, red skin dry. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

 _You have no idea,_ Stiles thinks darkly.

 

"Stiles!" His mother cries as he walks into the kitchen the next morning.

The mess from the night before is gone and cleared, glossed over like it never happened. Stiles has noticed that with Robert, especially since his mother has become ill, he’s definitely one for shoving the problems under the rug and forgetting about them. Every time Stiles’ mother does something, he brushes it away, takes it from visible sight and pretends it never happens. Stiles doesn’t know how the man can sleep at night with all the skeletons banging around in his closet. Though, Stiles isn’t one to talk.

"I made you pancakes," his mother goes on, smiling. Stiles can’t stand to look at her, because it’s the same smile his mother used to smile, yet it’s so incredibly different at the same time. She holds herself the same sometimes, and Stiles hates it even more to when she’s different because it’s like the world is teasing him, giving him small, baiting bites of his old mother before she’s snatched away from him again. It’s like she’s so close, yet so out of reach.

"I’m not hungry," Stiles replies, and the three words couldn’t be more true. He slipped into sleep last night, drifting as he sat in the window and stared up at the stars after they’re finished cleaning the kitchen. Exhaustion had creeped up on his too fast, dragging him into the abyss of sleep where Donovan’s face flashed and smiled, sadistic and bloody, screaming at him that it’s his fault, that he’s a murderer. Stiles had woken up with a clamp around his lungs and a scream on the tip of his tongue, and he’s been shaky and nauseous ever since.

He doesn’t see, his back turned to the room as he grabs a water bottle from the fridge, but his mothers face drops like the strings that were holding up her smile have been cut.

"Stiles, you need to eat," she says, and the words should have been soft, but instead they come out in a cold, warning tone that screams alarm bells in Stiles’ mind. He turns around slowly, looking at the floor at his mother’s feet.

He doesn’t think he’s looked anyone in the eye since _that_ night.

"I’m not hungry, mom," he says. "Honest."

"You are hungry," his mother replies. "You _must_ be hungry. You haven’t eaten. You never eat."

Stiles feels every muscle in his body tense up, his shoulders hunched up like a protective scarf. He can’t face this, not now. Donovan’s tormenting voice is in his head again, shouting over his scrambling thoughts. The water is back, smashing through the windows and flooding the room. It fills his lungs, blocks his air ways. He can’t breathe.

Derek, Cora and Robert sit at the dining table, watching in silence as the scene plays out in front of them. Stiles doesn’t know if he wants them to help or to leave.

"Do you want to die, Stiles?" Claudia asks.

Stiles opens his mouth, but the words he wants to say silently twisting his tongue so he can’t speak.

This only seems to anger his mother more. Stiles has never see her like this.

Her lip is turned up as she spits, "You are such a stupid child! Have I taught you nothing? If you don’t eat, you die! Do you want to die, Stiles? Is this some kind of suicidal trick? Huh?"

Every word is like a punch. Stiles feels himself physically back up against the fridge. His mother grabs the plate of pancakes for the side and suddenly, Stiles is ducking as the plate is thrown and smashes against the wall beside his head. He refrains from crying out as his heart leaps into his throat, chocking him with shock and fear. Porcelain china and pancake rain down on him and he crouches on the floor, arms snaked around his head helplessly.

Claudia is screaming, shouting the words that don’t reach Stiles’ ear above the blood roaring in his head. He looks up, breath refusing to enter his mouth, and finds his mother caged in Robert’s arms, punching, kicking and thrashing like a maniac as her husband tries to stop her, to calm her down, to do _something_.

Claudia is dragged out of the kitchen, breaking down into tears when her and Robert reach the stairs, slouching in the arms holding her up and sobs weakly. Derek and Cora stand in the doorway like a barrier, both as shocked as the rest of them. Behind them, Stiles stays on the floor, knees to his chest and large, tearful eyes staring at the floor, unseeing as fear and shock overwhelm him like a tidal wave, dragging him down and drowning him once again.

 

Stiles feels fragile when he walks through the school corridors now. Everyone knows him, everyone knows his mother so therefore, everyone knows what is happening. News travels fast in a small town like Beacon Hills, and something as juicy as Claudia Stilinski dying has no chance of slipping through the cracks and going unheard.

The sympathetic looks are the worst. People are already looking at him like he’s lost his mother. He wants to scream at them to stop, that she’s not dead yet, but then he realises that he’s practically lost her anyways.

He doesn’t concentrate. He can’t force himself to think or listen or take notes. He sits by the window, gazing out with unseeing eyes. He knows Lydia or Scott or Allison will be kind enough to write him notes, because they’re kind and generous like that and Stiles does not deserve them. The hatred for himself fuels him like a roaring fire, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and a hurricane of nausea in his stomach.

It’s when Stiles is walking out of history, a month after Claudia was diagnosed, Scott close to his side like a shadow, that he see’s Jackson.

The jock is standing on the other side of the almost empty corridor, leaning against the lockers. His friends are at his side, talking about something between them.

Jackson see’s Stiles first, eyes zeroing in on him like a moth to a flame.

Stiles’ heart drops. He can’t do this. He can’t take another beating. Not today, not after everything that has happened in the last month.

He doesn’t realise his breath has quickened until Scott is pressing into his side, hand on his shoulder. Stiles can’t take his eyes off Jackson, can’t stop his knees from shaking threateningly underneath him.

 _Not today. Not today. Not today_.

Jackson stares at him a moment longer, expression a void. The senior is barely a month away from graduation, a month away from never seeing Stiles again. He blinks, pushing himself off the locker, and walks down the corridor. His friends follow in suit, each sparing a glance at Stiles. They turn the corner, and Stiles drops to the floor like a rock.

He’s thankful the corridor is empty so no one else see’s his pathetic collapse as he crashes to his knees in a breathless heap.

Scott is in front of him in a second, one hand holding his and the other holding his shoulder. His mouth is moving, but Stiles can’t hear a word.

Jackson didn’t do anything. Jackson didn’t _do anything_. He had an open shot, a free throw, and he didn’t take it. Stiles feels like he’s been punched anyway. He’s struck with confusion and shock, relief flooding him like a drug.

A hand touches his cheek, warm and soft, and it’s like all of his senses come rushing back. He looks up from the floor he’d been staring unseeing at, finally meeting Scott’s eyes.

"Stiles?" Scott’s voice is so gentle, so hesitant, that Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it.

Stiles swallows around the dry lump in his throat.

"Sorry," he croaks. "I. . . I don’t know what that was."

Not a lie. He knows it wasn’t a panic attack, but it certainly was _something_.

Scott’s expression floods with relief. He breaks out into a smile, huge and blinding, huffing a laugh. "Buddy, don’t apologise. What. . ." he pauses, licking his lips almost nervously. "Did Jackson—"

"Before," Stiles interrupts shortly. "He’s do-done stuff before. I. . . I w-was nervous he was going to do it again."

Scott’s expression looks stricken. Stiles has never told anyone about the bullying and shoving and harassment.

"I’m sorry," he whispers again. "I didn’t want to tell anyone. I. . ."

"Its okay," Scott interrupts gently, flashing him a smile. Its smaller than before, strained and forced at the edges, but’s a smile none the less. "It’s okay. He’s not going to hurt you again."

Somehow, Stiles finds it in himself to believe him.

 

Stiles can’t stand to look at the woods surrounding the house anymore. Every time he does, he feels a cold sweat take over his body, a tremble vibrating through his hands. He see’s Donovan standing at the edge of the garden, blood glistening in the centre of his chest, his shirt soaked with it. His skin is as white as snow, eyes dark and he’s always smiling at familiar sadistic, twisted smile.

Stiles swallows down another pill dry, feeling it slowly numb his mind within minutes. He’s been taking them more than often. Too much, he knows, but he doesn’t want to stop. He’s out of cigarettes, on his last few but he doesn’t have the energy to go and find Greenberg. He sits on the back doorstep, looking over the gardens and courts, waiting for Donavan to step out from behind the streets. The house behind him sits silently, his mother sleeping and Robert out somewhere.

He hasn’t slept in days. He can’t remember the last time he slept for more than an hour. He’s starting to get used to the tiredness, to the ache in his eyes, to the heaviness in his bones. He can’t sleep at home, not when he knows his mother is just down the hall, her own mind rotting inside of her. He can’t sleep knowing Donovan’s rotting body is somewhere out in the forest around the house.

It’s summer holidays, so Derek is on the basketball pitch at the end of the garden, and it’s time like this that Stiles wonders if it can even be labelled as a 'garden', surely it’s far too big. Stiles has never, and will never, get used to the space and size of the house. The marble floor still feels foreign and strange under his feet. The kitchen is still too big and the lounge is still too cold.

It’s been almost four months since his mother was diagnosed. Stiles knows his mother is going to die. He knows he’s going to be alone, that he’s going to be left again by the one person in his life that shouldn’t leave him yet. The day his father died, his mother had taken his hand and said she wasn’t going to leave him like his father left him. The words had stung, had chipped another piece of Stiles away, but he has never forgotten them. And now, his mother is breaking her promise.

"You know, if you like taking pills so much, maybe you should try some sleeping pills."

Stiles had snaps back and he looks over his shoulder in time to see Cora step past him and onto the decking, dropping down so she sits opposite him with her legs crossed.

She’s wearing ripped jeans and a black knitted jumper, and she looks at him with a bored expression.

"You look like shit," she goes on. "More so than usual."

"Always with the compliments," Stiles rasps, quirking an eyebrow.

"Woah," Cora whistles, her eyes widening comically. "You sound like shit too."

Stiles rolls his eyes, ignoring the throb it instantly creates in his head. A sudden, gentle breeze brings goosebumps on his arms and he burrows into his hoodie. He only has one on, and despite the thick material, he desperately seeks more heat from the futile clothing.

"So," Cora starts after a long minute of silence. "Lydia found me today. She said she hasn’t seen you in weeks, and you’re not answering your phone."

Stiles shrugs. It’s the summer holidays, it’s too easy to disconnect from everyone when you don’t have to see them in the school corridors or classrooms. Stiles had bunked almost the entirety of the last semester, only turning up for the exams and tests he had. Stiles revised in his own time, grateful for the first time of his overactive brain. He was called in for a meeting before the summer holidays break up where the principle patronised him for his poor situation and that he hopes Stiles will attend more in September.

Stiles hasn’t spoken to Scott or Lydia in weeks, maybe months. He hasn’t charged his phone in days, hasn’t moved it from his rucksack where he last took it out to go to the beach with Derek again - it’s become a frequent thing between the two, to go there, sit or throw stones in silence and come back without discussing a thing.

"Stiles," Cora’s voice suddenly snaps him out of his thoughts. He looks up from where his eyes had locked on the decking panels. "She’s really worried."

The young teen sighs. "Tell her she doesn’t need to be."

"Actually, I think she does, because if you’re not swallowing yourself into a overdose already, I wouldn’t be surprised if you do it soon."

Stiles’ head snaps up, gaping she had even said _that_.

She doesn’t even look apologetic at all.

"I’m not kidding," she says cooly. "You’re pissed me off. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, you don’t have to tell me all your problems because I’m not your fucking therapist. But, you don’t realise that everything you’re doing right now, the pills and the smoking and the not eating, you’re not just effecting yourself but everyone around you. Derek is making himself sick with worry over you. Lydia and Scott ask me every time I see them in town I they can come over and see you. I really want to fucking hate you right now for what you’re doing, but I can’t. But, I also won’t help you when you fall down this rabbit hole you know you’re running towards. The pills. . . they aren’t going to help you. Whatever you want to forget, pills won’t take them away, no matter how strong they are or how many you take. All they do is put a plaster on it, but sooner or later that plaster is going to come off and the thing you’re hiding it still going to be there."

The words wash over Stiles like a heavy wave, hitting him cold in the face and drenching him completely. He physically shivers, pulling his knees close to his chest. He can’t tell Cora what’s going on. He still can’t, and won’t tell anyone.

"Stiles," Cora says again when he doesn’t speak. "I don’t know what’s happened to you, I don’t know if its your mom or something else, but you can’t keep doing this. You. . . you need to stop before you really hurt yourself."

"I can’t," Stiles chokes. "You don’t understand, Cora. I. . . I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t _think_ , Cora."

Cora doesn’t say anything else. She has a sad tint to her expression, lips pressed into a thin line as if she’s stopping herself from saying something. She reaches across, her warm hand gently holding onto Stiles’ cold one. And then she just nods, not in understanding or acceptance, but in surrender.

 

Donovan is officially reported missing in the middle of August. It’s small news in Beacon Hills, as he lived a few towns over and apparently no one knew his connections to Beacon Hills and Stiles.

Theo doesn’t confront him about it. Stiles gets no calls or texts or knocks not the door about it. It’s washed-over news within a week, completely forgotten by everyone.

Everyone but Stiles.

 

Claudia has good days and bad days. Towards the end, she has more bad than good but the good are still there.

There are days when she’s the mother Stiles used to know. Some of the months of later deterioration blur together for Stiles. He doesn’t really remember distinct days in August and September. It’s just a repetition of fights and shouting and Stiles watching her do things differently before he has to go around after her and fix them.

It’s hospital visits and medication, rattling bottles of pills and tablets filling her bag and overloading the bathroom counters.

It’s finding her downstairs at two in the morning, watching the TV on high volume, or sleeping in till noon and coming down stairs still in her pyjamas, going straight to the sofa only to stare at the screen mindlessly.

It’s the washing not being done, or the kitchen cupboards and fridge staying empty.

It’s listening to her tone and demeanour change like a flick of a twitch. Her personality switching like the change of a channel. Sometimes she’s Claudia, and then sometimes she’s not.

Everything they’re used to is shattered before their very eyes.

 

It’s a miracle that Stiles makes it back into school. He starts sophomore year being dragged into the building by Cora, Derek, who was held back a year and has to do senior year again (he won’t speak about it, but Stiles heard the yelling between him and Robert over the summer when they found out Derek basically screwed almost every one of his exams), barricading the other side. They stay with him all day, not letting him go outside to smoke a cigarette or to the bathroom at lunch. Lydia and Scott coddle him, petting him like they’re his older siblings.

Stiles will admit the attention is nice, but by the time he gets home on his first day back, he’s jittery and itching for the taste of nicotine. He hadn’t seen Theo all day. The new year is clear of Jackson, Isaac, Boyd and all of that lot. He misses Erica, and Derek is the only one left behind, and while Stiles still walks the halls with hunched shoulders and tired eyes, he’s no longer looking over his shoulder in fright of Jackson coming to shove him into lockers or kick his ribs backwards.

Derek drops him off and leaves, going out to see Isaac (the only senior who stuck around since graduation). Stiles unlocks the front door, dumping his bag on the the sofa as he passes it and goes into the kitchen, throat dry and in the need of some water. He finds his mother standing at the window above the sink, looking out over the garden.

She turns when he walks in and frowns deeply.

"Can I help you?" She asks. "What are you doing in my house?"

Stiles has never felt his heart drop so fast. It sinks like an abandoned anchor in the sea, speeding towards the floor and crashing. He goes cold all over, body breaking out into a sweat.

He can’t even get a word out. Shock has him in its vice grip. He’s paralysed, helpless.

"What are you doing in my house?" Claudia shrieks, her voice high with hysteria, apparently becoming panicked too.

"I. . ."

"Get out of my house before I call the police," she snaps.

"Mom. . . stop," he chokes, feeling his eyes burn with tears. "I’m your son. I’m Stiles—"

"Son? I don’t have a son," Claudia shouts, screams. "You’re not my son!"

A cold tear runs down his cheek.

"Get out of my house! Get out! Get out now!" Claudia is screaming. She’s running towards him, and Stiles doesn’t see her pick up the frypan until it’s swinging towards his head. He ducks at the last minute, his arm shielding his head. The metal pan collides with his elbow as he drops to the floor, clipping the bone but he doesn’t have time to register the crack and pain as he scurries away, scrambling to his feet in desperation to escape.

His mother continues to scream and shriek behind him, rushing after him as he dashes out of the house. He falls through the front door, almost tumbling face-first down the stone steps but finds his footing at the last moment. As if fed a spark of adrenaline, he breaks into a sprint, bolting across the driveway and down the dirt track. He hears his mother shouting from the house, screaming at him to get away.

The house disappears from view behind him. His mothers screams and shouts fade out into silence, but he doesn’t stop running. Stiles runs, as fast as his legs can carrying him, his beaten-up Converse catching occasionally on the forest floor.

_You’re not my son._

The words pulsate in his head. His legs go weak and he stumbles, crashing to his hands and knees. He feels the sharp twigs and rocks graze and split his skin, the denim of his jeans tearing, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

_You’re not my son._

_Get out of my house!_

_Get out!_

His heart is racing dangerously in his chest. He feels numb again.

He climbs to his feet, vision blurred with tears, and starts walking again. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just has to _go._

Stiles suddenly finds himself standing in front of the McCall residence. He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there, staring up at the house, but it must be a while as the front door is opening while he stands at the end of the driveway, and Melissa is suddenly standing in the doorway.

"Stiles?" She calls out.

Stiles can’t reply. He’s frozen. He’s ice. His mouth won’t work, tongue a weight of lead behind his teeth.

And then, Melissa is in front of him, her hands reaching up to hold his face and Stiles flinches back like he’s been struck. Its then that he notices he’s shaking os violently he feels like he’s going to collapse. Melissa’s face is stricken, unclear through his tear-filled eyes.

"Come on, love," she murmurs, voice so gentle and soft Stiles feels like he could melt from it. "Come inside."

Stiles lets the hand on his back guide him towards the house and past the threshold. He’s blanketed in warmth, curling around him like an invisible vine, making the chill on his skin more noticeable. Scott comes bounding down the atria as Melissa is closing the front door behind them.

"Stiles?" He says, frowning, and coming towards his friend. When Stiles doesn’t reply, he looks to his mother. "Mom? What’s going on?"

"I don’t know," Melissa replies. "Take him into the living room. I’ll make some hot chocolates."

Scott nods, curling an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and gently ushering him into the living room. Stiles drops down on the sofa like a brick, legs giving out underneath him. Scott sits at his side, arm still around him.

"Stiles?" He asks. "What happened?"

Stiles can’t talk. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to tell someone that his own mother doesn’t even recognise him to the point that she actually chased him out of the house. He just sits there, trembling against the steady line of Scott’s side, the warmth seeping into his clothes and soothing the ice around him.

"Come on, Stiles," he murmurs, hand brushing up and down his arm. "Talk to me. What’s going on? Are you okay?"

Melissa comes in with two mugs of steaming hot chocolate, placing them on the coffee table before crouching down in front of Stiles. She rests his hands on his bony knees and looks up at him, her brown eyes so soft and gentle, just like everything else about the McCall family.

"Stiles, honey," she says. "You need to tell us what’s going on."

"She doesn’t remember me," Stiles whispers, and the four shaking, fragile words make all the puzzle pieces fall into place.

As soon as the words tumble out of his mouth, it all becomes so much more _real_. It’s like he’s walked into a wall of glass, and everything comes shattering down around him.

His mother doesn’t _remember him._

_You’re not my son!_

_Get out of my house!_

_You’re not my son!_

"Stiles, what happened?" Melissa’s voice brings him back to the present, but the pain doesn’t go away.

He chokes down a sob. "She doesn’t remember me. She. . . s-she doesn’t know who I am."

"Okay," Melissa says, reaching up and cupping his cheeks as he breaks down, sobbing so hard his chest aches. "Okay, sweetie, you’re okay here."

Stiles cries so hard he’s shaking. His breath comes out in punches and he’s curled in on himself like a wounded animal. Scott doesn’t leave his side, a constant weight to keep him grounded. Melissa strokes his knees, staring worryingly as he shatters in front of them.

He tells Melissa and Scott everything. He tells them about how Claudia didn’t recognise him,about how she started screaming when he said he was her son, about how she chased him out of the house with a fucking frypan.

If Stiles wasn’t so close to breaking into a thousand pieces, he’d laugh at the comical image of his mother attacking him with a frypan.

Stiles doesn’t remember mentioning his mother hitting him with the pan, but suddenly Melissa is rolling up the sleeves of his jacket and sweatshirts, revealing the watercolour of purple and black smudges around his entire elbow. Now that he thinks about it, he can feel the painful throbbing pulse every time Melissa moves it and flinches when she does. She apologises when he gasps after she touches it and fetches him an icepack. Scott hands him his mug of hot chocolate and Stiles drinks it without thinking.

Melissa bandages his elbow after the icepack has gone warm, assuring him it isn’t broken but that they need to keep an eye on the swelling and to make sure he can keep all of his motion and movement. Her and Scott disappear into the kitchen after that, and Stiles feels the throbbing behind his eyes come to feeling.

He looks around the living room that reminds him so much of his own in his old home, before he was uprooted into the cold, too-big mansion in the Preserve. He looks at the fabric sofa he sits on, with the big pillows and worn blankets draped over the back. He looks at the carpet, worn with time and stains. He looks at the fireplace, old and blackened by repeated nights of the fire burning. He looks at the walls and cabinets, photo frames with faded photos and ornaments. Small things that remind him so much of a life he used to live.

He closes his eyes to shut out the painful memories that are coming back to life, his head spinning with them.

Derek picks him up the next day, hugging Stiles the moment he appears at the front door. He hugs Melissa and Scott goodbye, shedding a tear on their shoulders before Derek, with his arm around his shoulder, guides him to the car to go home.

 

The final time Claudia is admitted to hospital is under cruel circumstances.

She goes missing for 14 hours. She’s gone when everyone gets home in the evening and not found until the following morning, blue with hypothermia from getting lost in the Preserve all night in the middle of October.

Stiles doesn’t leave her side after she’s admitted. As she lays in the private hospital room, surrounded by four white walls and beeping machinery, Stiles watches his mother deteriorate. He watches as her eyes lose their spark, the whiskey orbs becoming blank and lifeless. He watches her skin become whiter by the day, the colour literally draining out of her. He watches her hands shake as they move, her fingers becoming nimble and fragile. He watches her weight drop like it’s been scooped out of her like the insides of a pumpkin.

Stiles will never forget the feeling, sitting in the hard plastic chair at her bedside, the room cold and silent as she sleeps and sleeps and sleeps, her hand cold in his.

Two days before she dies, she acts as if she isn’t ill. It is as if life rewinds and his old mother is back. She asks how school is, smiling sadly when he tells her he hasn’t been in weeks, not ready to leave her. She asks how he is, how his drawing is going, how Scott and Lydia are. She asks him to read to her, squeezing his hand as she does. She smiles, and she laughs. She’s warm, like she’s his mother again.

It’s the rise before the tragic fall.

It takes less than a year for Claudia Hale to die. Five months exactly. The doctors say she should have been diagnosed long before, that the disease has been inside of her for years, changing her before their very eyes.

Stiles should have noticed. He should have seen the changes in his own mother, but he didn’t. And now, as he sits beside her bedside, hand clasping her own, wondering how he missed everything.

His mother dies in her sleep. There is no goodbye. There are no last words. No chances for apologises or amends. She’s just gone, snatched before Stiles can reach out.

Stiles will never forget the sound of the machine flatlining.

 

_— tbc._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bye bye claudia!


	14. black suits

It rains the day of the funeral.

Stiles wants to believe it’s like some metaphorical tears raining down from the sky, a pathetic fallacy, some kind of last testimony to Claudia’s final goodbye. Of course, Stiles knows it’s nothing but another case of cold bad luck.

The suit he wears is uncomfortable and rough on his sensitive skin. The raven black colour of the material brings out the awful contrast in his sickly pale skin. The bags under his eyes are as dark as pits of dirt, making them look like sunken craters. He trembles when he stands, his knees weak and unsteady when he walks. His head is an empty space, mind clouded and numb.

He doesn’t feel the cold rain as it soaks through the expensive cashmere suit, freezing his already cold skin to the touch. He can’t feel himself shivering as he stands, hands in his pockets to hide their shaking, looking down at the rich wooden coffin where his mother lays. His last flesh and blood, his last parent, his last _family_ , lays lifeless and cold beneath a slate of wood.

Stiles has only ever been to one funeral, and he was so certain that the last one with his final. He didn’t imagine that over a year later, he would be here again.

But, here he is, in the dusty mist of cloudy October, his body numb and eyes red raw as if someone had rubbed them viciously with sandpaper. The funeral director is talking, rambling a scripted speech. He feels like his ears ares stuffed with cotton, everything is muffled and far away, as if he’s standing at the end of a dark, long tunnel and everyone else is at the other end. Derek is a solid presence at his side, but for the first time in a long time, it brings him no comfort. He can’t bring himself to look up, to meet peoples eyes or see the familiar faces. Scott is on his other side, and Stiles doesn’t know where she stands, but he knows Lydia is there too.

The voice he’s hearing in his ears change, and without looking up, he knows Robert is stepping up to speak. Stiles feels something shatter in his chest when Robert’s hoarse and rough voice reaches his ears, cracking as he delivers the words he’s probably rehearsed and practiced for days to speak. Stiles can’t bring himself to even wonder what Robert is feeling since his mother left them all. The man is a classic, rich asshole, but at the end of the day, Stiles know’s he loved his mother and losing her has hurt him too.

Stiles feels his eyes burn again with hot, unshed tears. He can’t hold them back as they roll down his cheeks in big, fat droplets. He can feel the shakes taking over his limbs, a vibrating tremor jerking down his legs. He feels unsteady, shaken and raw as Robert recites the woods of his speech, his goodbye, his words for his dead mother.

Stiles isn’t ready to say goodbye. He isn’t ready to let his mother go. He can still feel the sting of her palm slapping his cheek from all those months ago, but he can also feel her soft touch caressing his cheeks with her hands, comforting and warm. He can hear her screams of terror and anger when she didn’t recognise him, but he can also hear her gentle whispers, her advice and her laugh. He can feel the pool of ice in his stomach, the fear and hatred and isolation he felt from her, but he also feels the warmth, the sweetness, the home she brought him.

Stiles doesn’t know how he’s meant to let her go. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to let her rest when everything wrong between them went unsorted, words unsaid, apologies forever silent. Stiles will never get to say the things he needs to say, the darkness he needs to admit. He will never be able to tell his mother that despite everything, he loved her more than he has ever loved himself.

In that moment, it all becomes too real. He feels overwhelmed. His stomach twists. The never disappearing vice around his chest tightens with no avail, crushing his lungs like drying leafs and squeezing his lungs. He can’t breathe. His head spins, his throat closes up. He can feel the sting of the acidic bile crawling up his throat like nails dragging down a chalkboard. He feels his feet go numb, legs quaking like his weight is going to splinter the bones. He tries to gasp, but there is no air for him to breathe. His lungs burn, he blinks rapidly to chase away the black dots dancing like madmen before his eyes.

He’s moving before his mind can process it. He’s spinning around so fast he almost loses his balance, catching it at the last moment before he can eat the grass below him. He’s stumbled away, oblivious to the shouts and calls coming from behind him as he waves down the grassy bank away from the graves, legs becoming weaker by the moment as a sob itches the back of his throat like a tickle. He’s crying, cheeks wet, eyes stinging again.

His legs give out, and he waits for the pain to shoot up his knees as they crash towards the hard grass. But the floor never comes. Steady arms wrap around his midland he doesn’t need a moment before he melts against the warmth suddenly at his side. He sobs, shrieks, cries and shatters all at once. He breaks apart, shaking at the joints so hard he could come loose.

"It’s okay, Stiles," someone says, and he recognises Scott’s voice in his ear, his breath hot on his neck. "It’s okay. You’re going to be all right. I’m here, breathe with me, Stiles."

If Stiles could catch a big enough breath, he’d shriek at Scott that nothing about this is 'okay' or 'all right'. Stiles will never be 'all right' again.

His breath stays stolen as Scott lowers them both to the floor, settling down on the damp grass. Stiles doesn’t care that the sodden mud is sticking to his expensive, black trousers - Robert can go to hell with his money.

Scott’s hand is running up and down his back, rubbing the chills away. Stiles is completely leaning on him now, curled up into his chest. He gasps, hiccuping as tears stream down his cheeks, dropping off his nose and chin, crashing towards the grassy floor.

Stiles tries to speak, he tries to move but he _can’t_. It’s like he’s trapped inside his own body, refusing to cooperate. He just kneels there, wrapped in Scott’s arms, hiding against the hollow of his chest as he sobs for his dead mother. He feels paralysed and numb. But, at the same time, he can feel every shake and tremble jar his body, his bones shaking beneath the skin almost manically. He can feel every spike of pain flaring in his chest like someone is trying to pop his lungs like late balloons with long, sharp pins. He can feel his heart racing, pounding on his rib cage like a trapped animal, rabid and determined to break out.

He can feel everything, but at the same time, he can’t feel anything at all.

*****

Derek’s never been a to funeral. He hadn’t known what to expect, and this is certainly not it. As he looks around him, a sea of black and gaunt eyes face him, endless tracks of tear lines, soft sounds of women weeping and men sniffing. His own black suit makes him feel too formal, like he’s going out for an expensive different rather than a emotional goodbye to the woman who held his fathers heart for over a year before her own mind drove her into the ground.

Derek’s father is a wreck. He’s dressed in grey, as if the slightly less harsh colour won’t make him seem so gaunt. It doesn’t work. His father looks nothing like the composed man he’s always been. Instead, he’s haggard. His futile attempt at shaping himself up for this day has fallen away in rags, his hair flat and bags under his eyes so deep they look like purple smudges of eyeshadow.

Cora is somewhat less emotional. She shed a few tears when Claudia was announced dead, and Derek knows she’s shed a few more since, but so far, the funeral had left her dry and silent. Her cheeks are tinted pink from the cold, nothing more than a rosy blush. There are no tear tracks, no red eyes. She looks tired, but nothing more. Derek knows Cora is probably the least attached to Claudia. In the year she’s been living with them, Cora has avoided Claudia as much as her own son did.

Derek can’t stop looking at Stiles. If he thinks his father is a wreck, then Stiles is a catastrophic plane crash. He’s a mess of colourless skin and lifeless eyes that are sunken like craters and bruised like he’s been punched. They’re bloodshot, and when they almost met Derek’s earlier that morning, it sent a shiver down the older teens spine. Stiles is merely a shell of who he was. He hasn’t spoken out loud since the hospital, when the he sat in the front row seat to his mothers dwindling death. Derek will never be able to forgive himself for letting Stiles be there alone when the machine finally flatlined.

Stiles looks like he’s drowning in the cashmere suit Robert has forced him to wear. The sharp, jet black colour is making him look even more washed out. His legs look stick thin like a chickens. Derek thinks he if he looks hard enough, he’ll be able to see the prodding bone of Stiles’ shoulder through the thick, rich fabric.

He doesn’t look. He doesn’t want to know.

Derek, like everybody else, isn’t really listening to the funeral director when he’s talking. And when his father steps up to take the stage, Derek tunes out even more. He can’t listen to his father pour his heart out. The pair already have an unsteady relationship, but no child wants to hear their parent sob their feelings out at their loved ones funeral.

Derek hears the uptake of breath moments before Stiles is stumbling away, spinning around like he’s been screamed for and tripping his way away from the crowd. Derek is about to move after him when he see’s Scott dart out of the collected group of black, chasing Stiles down the hill and catching the teen as he crumbles.

Derek forces himself to turn back to the ceremony, where a swarm of strangers and company colleagues stand over the wooden box hovering above the deep, low grave. Derek doesn’t recognise a single face in front of him. His father has invited friends of his own, work and business partners to fill the gaps around the grave, to fill the realisation that Claudia and him have no one else. His father has never had any close family on his side, his father died when he was in his twenties and he left his mother to build his company. A single child with a mind of money, Derek has never met any of his fathers distant family, and as he’s told Derek a hundred times before, _business men don’t have friends, Derek._

It makes Derek feel sick to his stomach to think there is no one at the funeral who knew Claudia personally apart from them and the McCalls. He hasn’t had the chance to ask Stiles, but it’s becoming all more clear how Claudia, and therefore Stiles, have no close family either. Claudia was a popular woman in the town, but it appears that none of their faces are appearing at the woman’s funeral. Did his father not invite them? Derek knows Stiles needs comfort and support today, and no one gets that from a group of strangers.

A hand snakes it’s way around Derek’s biceps and he looks down to face them. Lydia’s red eyes find him, her eyelashes glistening and painted a thin layer of leaking black. Her cheeks are flushed red, from the cold or the crying, Derek doesn’t know. Her hair is tied back in a loose bun, strands have fallen out and hang by her face, framing her sculptured features. She looks composed and crumbling at the same time.

"Let Scott handle him," she says quietly, softly, cracking ever so slightly.

Derek nods stiffly, and Lydia flashes him a small smile before they both turn back to the face of the centre.

"I didn’t expect to see you here," Derek says, voice hushed and barely above a whisper.

"I’m paying my respects," Lydia replies formally.

"Hmm," Derek hums. "For a woman you clearly hated?"

"I didn’t hate Claudia as a women. I hated her as a mother," Lydia corrects. She takes a deep breath, "And I’m here for stiles. He needs all the support he can get."

Derek nods silently in reply. Lydia is right - Stiles _does_ need all the support he can get, but the past year has proven to Derek that Stiles doesn’t take support easily.

"I don’t see any tear tracks on your cheeks," Lydia goes on, "considering you’ve just lost your mother."

"Claudia wasn’t my mother," Derek practically hisses. "She was a good woman when she wanted to be, but she was nothing more to me."

Lydia hums, "Fair enough. I need you to promise me something, Derek."

Derek finally tears his eyes away from the ceremony in front of him to look to the girl beside him. "What?"

She meets his eyes. "No matter how hard it gets, you don’t give up on Stiles."

"I won’t," Derek promises.

Lydia turns to face him, her green eyes shining with such emotion. "You didn’t see him right after his father, Derek. This time is going to be worse, and he is going to need all the help he can get - and not from doctors, or therapists, or councillors. He needs family and friends. No matter how hard he makes it, no matter how soul crushing it gets, you can not abandon him. Do you understand?"

Derek stares for a moment, the words sinking in.

And then, he’s nodding. "I understand. I promise, Lydia."

"Good," she murmurs.

The ceremony finishes moments after that. The casket is lowered slowly into the ground and people begin to leave as the dirt is shovelled on top. No one wants to watch that, so Derek carefully approaches his father and leads him away, down the grass bank and towards the car parked on the narrow road.

He looks to the side and see’s Stiles on the floor with Scott, evident by the large, slow deep breaths he’s taking that he has calmed down. Scott, as if he knows Derek is watching, looks up and instantly meets his eyes. The tanned teen nods at Derek, as if to say _it’s alright. I’ve got him._

That is all the reassurance Derek needs. He knows Stiles will be in good hands with the McCalls.

Scott finds him a few minutes later as Derek is saying goodbye to some unfamiliar faces who must feel the need to give him condolences. Derek takes them all with bland smiles and stiff _thank you_ ’s. It’s not _his_ mother who has died. He hasn’t lost anything, and he doesn’t want to hear peoples sympathy that should be getting given to to Claudia’s _actual_ son.

"Derek," Scott begins. Up close, he looks worse than Lydia, but still seems to have a hold over himself. He’s dressed smartly, yet still manages to stand out like a sore thumb amongst the hideously rich guests Derek’s father invited.

"Is Stiles alright?" Derek asks, and the moment the words fall from his lips, he feels utterly stupid. Of _course_ Stiles isn’t alright. He wasn’t alright before his mother started dying before his very eyes, so he most certainly isn’t alright _now_. None the less, Scott seems to understand what Derek is trying to ask.

"He’ll be alright," Scott nods. "He’s going to come home with me and my mom, stay with us for a few days."

Scott’s words leave no room for objection. He doesn’t ask if its okay, if they mind. Derek doesn’t want to object regardless, Stiles needs to be with the best people he can get and at the moment, he needs the familiarity of the McCall’s home instead of the large, cold and now quiet Hale mansion in the middle of a deserted forest.

"Of course. If you need anything, call me or Cora," Derek replies. "Look after him, please."

"Of course I will," Scott nods. After a moment he flashes Derek a smile. "I know you don’t want to hear it, but I am sorry for you too. You may not have been close to Claudia, but it mustn’t have been easy to watch what she went through. And, I know you care about Stiles, so I know that must be tough too."

Derek nods. "Thanks. Take care of him. Like I said, you can call if you need anything."

"I will," Scott replies, smiling again before he’s turning and walking away.

Derek looks in the direction the teen is walking in and see’s Melissa standing with Stiles by a indigo blue car, opening one of the back doors while her other hand rests on the small of the child’s back.

Stiles is in good hands now.

*****

Stiles opens his eyes to grey.

He blinks once, twice, before rolling over thirdly and closing his eyes before the McCall living room can come into view. He hears the familiar sound of feet bounding down the stairs outside the room, and he squeezes his eyes tighter shut, trying to block it out.

He knows the moment Scott comes into the room because the banging stops and instead is replaced by slow steps, socked feet almost silent on the carpeted floor.

"I know you’re awake, Stiles."

He doesn’t move. Seconds pass, moment’s lost, when he replies with a quiet, cracking whisper, "No I’m not."

He hears Scott laugh softy, and then more shuffling on the carpet. A hand rests on his shoulder and he opens his eyes into slits. Scott is crouched in front of him, eye level with him and expression gentle. His lips twitch up in a small smile.

"Mom made us some breakfast before she went to work. It’s probably still warm if you want some," he says, thumb rolling over the jutting bone of Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles shakes his head, a small movement the doesn’t look anymore than a twitch. "'M not hungry."

He blinks slowly, and as he opens his eyes again, he catches the tail end of Scott’s frown that he quickly covers up.

"How about some cereal? Fruit? I can make you something fresh if you want," Scott offers, and Stiles knows there is no way out of this. Scott won’t force him, but he also won’t let it go. He’ll talk with soft, gentle words like Melissa, guilting Stiles with his kind brown eyes that can make grown women weep.

Stiles blinks tiredly again, taking a deep breath. "Fruit."

Scott smiles widely, vividly resembling a puppy. "Fruit and pancakes it is then!"

He stands up, looking down at Stiles for a moment before reaching down again and ruffling his greasy, bed-messy hair and leaving to go into the kitchen.

Stiles stays on the couch for a little while longer. He stays, staring ahead in the place Scott was moments before. The covers and quilts are wrapped around him, engulfing him up to his chin. He’s completely encased, dressed in a sweatshirt and thick sweatpants underneath, yet he can still feel the chill.

His head swims when he pushes back the covers and rises to his feet. The world spins and for a moment, he wonders if he’s going to pass out. He doesn’t - a blessing or a curse, he isn’t sure. He tucks his hands into the baggy ends of his chewed and worn sweatshirt sleeves before crossing the living room floor slowly and following Scott into the kitchen.

The older teen stands at the stove with his back to the room. Something Stiles has learnt since staying with the McCall’s for over a week, is that when Scott says he can’t cook, it means he _really can’t cook_.

It’s a wonder Melissa even lets him in the kitchen. The teen is like a ticking time bomb. Pancakes has proven to be the only thing he can make, and even then Melissa always makes up a batch of mix to keep in the fridge so Scott doesn’t have to try and handle the ingredients and measurements.

Stiles shuffles into the kitchen, his socked feet sliding across the cold, tiled floor. The cool temperature of the white tiles seep through the thick wool of his socks that Scott has lent him, making him shiver and his toes curl. He sits down at the table, folding his arms and resting his chin on them.

"You wanna flip it?" Scott asks, grinning at stiles over his shoulder. He raises his eyebrows a few times, grin growing slightly.

Stiles manages to smile at the ridiculous expression his best friend is sporting, but shakes his head at the offer. He doesn’t have the energy to even stand up, the movement from the couch pathetically exhausting him.

Scott shrugs, mood seeming un-dampened. He turns back to the stove and picks the frying pan off the hob, wiggling it slightly before attempting to flip it.

It rises, and then it falls into a sticky heap in the middle of the pan. Scott’s face falls, eyebrows punching in an innocent frown and Stiles actually wants to laugh at that.

"What fruit do you want?" Scott asks once he’s amended the pancake, straightening it out in the pan. "Strawberries? Blueberries? Bananas?"

"Banana’s are for waffles," Stiles replies, picking at a loose threat on his sleeve.

"Very true," Scott agrees placidly. Stiles can feel his eyes on him, but he refuses to look up. "Strawberries then?"

Stiles shrugs. This, like every other morning he’s gotten up to, feels wrong. He has this dark pool swirling inside of him whenever he thinks that exactly eight days ago, he was standing in front of a mirror, straightening his black tie numbly and trying to prepare himself for one of the worst days of his life. Some days, he wakes up and it all feels like some awful nightmare, like he’s dreamed it all and everything is as it was. And then, it only takes a second, a drawn out moment for him to realise that his mother is dead, that she has left him, and somehow, he has become the description of a homeless orphan.

It took him five days to move from the McCall couch and three days to speak to anyone. He still hasn’t spoken to Derek, or Cora or Robert. He’s assuming Scott is speaking to Derek, or perhaps the Hale’s have finally seen him as a lost cause and have no more morals for him now his mother is gone.

A plate slides under his nose, bringing him out of his ever-looping thoughts. His eyes snap into focus, the smell of sugary pancakes and fresh strawberries wafting into his nose as he looks up and meets Scott’s eyes.

The teen smiles proudly at him. "Those are probably the best pancakes I have ever made," he says. "So cherish them."

 _Can I cherish them by not eating them?_ Stiles wants to ask, but he doesn’t.

He stares at them a little while longer, stomach churning and twisting in harsh knots. Scott scoffs and hoovers his pancakes down opposite him, paying no mind to Stiles’ delayed reaction.

He spares a glance at Scott before looking down at the steamy, cooling breakfast his friend has made him. He swallows around the lump in his throat. His appetite is like a distant memory, and instead he feels unsurprisingly nauseated at the sight and smell. Normally, Stiles is practiced in distraction. It’s become like second nature to avoid food like the plague, so much that it’s not even about being thin anymore. If it was any other time, he would be moving the food around on the plate, cutting it up to make it look like there’s less and drink water to ease the hunger pains in his stomach. Except now, Stiles isn’t even sure he can stomach water. He doesn’t even have the care to move the food around and make it look like he’s made some kind of effort to eat something.

"Not hungry?"

He looks up and meet’s Scott’s gaze. He shakes his head, risking it.

Scott nods, flashing him a forced, sad smile, but a smile none the less. "Maybe you’ll have an appetite later."

_Thank you. Thank you for not forcing me. Thank you for leaving it alone. Thank you for not making me talk._

Stiles flashes Scott a smile himself. It’s small, and tense, merely a twitch of the corner of his lips.

He hopes Scott is able to read the message it sends.

 

Later that day, when Scott has left for his afternoon work shift at the local Vets, Stiles finds himself back on the couch, rolled up in the comforter when Melissa walks in the front door.

She drops her bag down on the dining table, takes one look at the pale teen on the couch and sighs. She flashes him a smile, soft and kind, as gentle as a mother’s touch before she crouches down in front of him, running her hand through his messy hair.

"How are you doing today, sweetie?" She asks.

Stiles blinks at her and gives her a half-hearted, one shoulder shrug. He doesn’t know how to answer that question.

She nods, as if she actually understands. "Do you want anything? Something to eat, a cup of tea?"

Stiles shakes his head, and Melissa just nods.

"Well, I certainly need one!" She beams, standing up. Stiles stays where he is as she goes into the kitchen, coming back a few minutes later with a white, ceramic mug between her hands.

She places it down on the coffee table before kneeling down in front of him again, eye level with his head.

"Listen, Stiles. . ."

Stiles feel his heart stop. Just stop. Like someone has ripped out the power cord and he’s just shut down. His stomach fills with cold acid and he barely represses the need to shiver.

"You know I love having you here, stiles, and you’re always, _always_ welcome," Melissa starts, and she doesn’t need to say anymore - Stiles already knows what is coming. "But, I do think you need to starting thinking about going home."

Stiles doesn’t say anything. He just closes his eyes, keeping the tears back.

"Stiles, sweetie, I’m not kicking you out," Melissa promises, words as soft as velvet.

"I know," Stiles whispers, and he does. Melissa would never throw him out, but he can’t stay. Its not fair on her, or Scott. He knows that, and he doesn’t blame them for it. He just can’t imagine the idea of going back to that big, cold house where his mother decayed before his very eyes, with a group of people who probably don’t want him there. Derek’s been great, and so has Cora, but that doesn’t mean that he’s part of their family without his mother.

"If you want to stay, you know you can stay as long as you want," Melissa says when he doesn’t say anything else.

"But, you think I should go home soon," Stiles croaks, nodding.

Melissa looks at him sadly. "I think it would be good for you, to go back to some kind of normalcy."

"It won’t be, Mel," he says. "Not without her. I don’t belong there without her."

"It won’t be the same, that’s for sure, but you _do_ belong there, Stiles. They’re your family, with or without your mother," Melissa replies, and Stiles wants to laugh at how wrong she is. "Scott’s told me that Derek texts him everyday to ask about you, to make sure that you’re alright."

Stiles looks up at that, because that can’t be right.

Can’t it?

 

Stiles goes home the next day. He leaves when Scott is at school and when Melissa is at work. He shoves the minuscule clothing he has with him into his beat-up rucksack, folds the blankets he’s used on the back of the couch and walks out the front door.

He walks slowly through the Preserve, feet dragging in the soggy, muddy forest floor.

When he gets to the Hale house, the drive is empty apart from the steel, silver Volvo parked in the same place where it hasn’t moved for months. His mother’s car, the one she had been banned from driving when her own mind drove her to insanity, sits exactly where it was left.

Stiles feels the air get punched out of his lungs at the sight. If his head wasn’t such a mess, he’d wonder why Robert hasn’t sold, or at least got it moved from the front of the house.

Seeing the car makes entering the house a thousand times harder. Every breath comes out with strain as he forces himself to keep calm. The house is empty and locked, so he takes the spare key out from under the mat and opens the front door with a heavy, racing heart.

Inside is cold, the early winter months freezing the marble floor and leather furniture. As the front door swings to a close behind him it booms through the house like a gunshot.

And then, there’s silence.

Stiles looks around him, taking it all in like the first time he’d ever entered the house over a year ago. The day they moved in, when everything was numb and cold and strange. When his mother was babbling in his ear about decorating his room and their picture-perfect new life.

It all feels like a surreal dream now. A clouded, distant memory, so weak it’s like a light breath of wind.

"Cora? Is that you?"

Stiles’ entire body jerks, every muscle tensing up like he’s been shot when the voice shouts out.

And then, Derek is standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at him like he’s a ghost.

 _Maybe I am a ghost,_ Stiles thinks to himself.

"Stiles?" Derek asks, voice barely a whisper.

The younger teen doesn’t know what to do. He was hoping for an empty house, to come home to privacy. For someone who feels incredible alone and abandoned, Stiles wants nothing but to have the house to himself.

And Derek looks so _worried_ , so genially concerned it makes Stiles want to cry and scream at the same time.

Stiles does neither. He just stares.

"You’re. . . you’re home?" Derek asks, slowing making his way down the stairs. He crosses the marble floor, smiling when he gets closer.

The hug is unexpected, and at first, Stiles flinches like he’s been punched. Derek’s arms starts to uncoil from around him, but he feels himself suddenly melting into the touch, leaning into the older, larger teen like a lifeline. He doesn’t hug back, just presses his face into Derek’s chest and allows himself to be held.

"I can’t believe you’re here," Derek murmurs, hugging tighter. "You should have said you were coming. I would have come and picked you up or something."

Stiles doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He keeps his face hidden against Derek, feeling the warmth of the older teen that begins to seep into him. The arms are like anchors, keeping him grounded and stopping him from floating away.

Stiles doesn’t realise he is so touch starved until he finds himself wanting to actually reach out when Derek finally pulls away. The older boy looks down on him, face hard like he’s trying to hold back the frown.

"It’s good to have you home," he says.

 _This isn’t home_ , Stiles wants to say, but like most things, he stays quiet.

Quiet, and numb.

*****

Things don’t get better just because Stiles is back in the Hale mansion. Not even remotely. He barely leaves his bedroom, Derek notices and as far as he is aware, the teen hasn’t eaten or showered either.

Derek is worried, if he is completely honest. Stiles looked like a ghost when he came back four days ago, and since then, Derek hasn’t seen him at all. He doesn’t know what Stiles is doing behind the everlasting closed bedroom door, but he certainly isn’t doing anything loud.The room is silent next to his. Not a sound of TV, or music, or even phone calls coming from beyond the thin walls.

Derek wants to trust Stiles, he wants to have faith that the younger teen is just grieving in his own way.

But, he can’t. He can’t keep seeing the closed door and letting his imagination fill in the blanks.

It’s a Saturday when it happens. Robert is out as usual, at work or swallowing his grief, Derek doesn’t know - he’s barely seen his father too - and Cora is at the movies with a friend when Derek decides he can’t stand around anymore. His mind keeps flashing back to the night before, when Stiles actually came out of his room and if possible, looked worse than anytime Derek has seen him. He merely saw a flash of sickly translucent skin as Stiles dashed past him in the upstairs hallway, well into the late hours of the night, before disappearing back into his bedroom.

Derek had spent the entire night after that tossing and turning, stomach sick with worry of what was happening beyond the bedroom door.

It happens at lunchtime, when Derek is laying on his bed, reading a beaten-up paperback novel his mother gave him years ago. He barely hears the beginning, the sound of scuffles on the other side of the bedroom wall.

He sits up when he hears a crash, the sound of books colliding with wooden floor boards. He sits, frozen stiff, listening and waiting for the next sound.

The piercing crash of shattering glass has him leaping from his bed, book abandoned as he runs to the door, retching it open with an unnecessary forceful thrust. He crashes into Stiles’ closed door, laking down the door handle.

"Stiles!" He shouts. "Open this door!"

The door doesn’t budge, and the crashing on the other side continues. For a moment, Derek wonders if someone else is in there, as the sounds sound like someone is being thrown around the room.

"Stiles!" He roars again, the door still locked shut. He yanks it again, the wood groaning as the metal joints of the hinges are strained and abused.

Derek’s temper runs as thin as paper, and when he hears the strained, stuttering, pained cry from inside the room, he feels his patience fully run out.

He steps back and hurls himself at the door, his shoulder crashing into the wood and forcing the hinges to finally give way. Whatever was blocking the door goes skidding out of the way when Derek tumbles in.

He’s astonished at what he finds.

Everything on the desk has been swiped off and scattered across the floor. The posters, pictures and drawings on the walls have been torn off, crumpled and ripped on the ground. The mirror has been thrown, and judging by the large dent in the wardrobe door, that was the unlucky object it collided with. The reflective glass lays shattered amongst the chaotic mess, but that isn’t the worst part.

Derek feels all the air disappear from his lungs when his eyes find Stiles, sitting at the end of his bed, knee’s up to his chest and a bloody, broken shard of mirror glass in his hand.

He goes stumbling into the room, crossing the covered floor and dropping to his knees in a second. He doesn’t hesitate to snatch the sharp shard out of Stiles’ hand, feeling his own fingers sting when it digs into his flesh. He throws it, not caring where it lands behind him.

"Stiles. . ." he whispers, eyes glued to the bloody, open mess of his forearm. Jagged lines run up and down the inside of his arm, red and raw, oozing with crimson blood. It drips onto the floor beneath them, staining Stiles’ clothes.

Derek acts mindlessly. He strips his zip-up hoodie that he’s wearing with shaking hands, grabbing Stiles’ mangled arm and quickly wrapping it tightly around the open wounds. Stiles makes a sudden, strangled sound, attempting to snatch his arm away but Dereks grip doesn’t budge.

"Don’t," he snaps, voice cold and hard. He can feel the panic gripping him with ice cold talons. His breath is coming out in shakes, his whole body feels wrong and tight and foreign. He wants to run, to get away and forget, but he can’t because Stiles is hurt. "Just. . . don’t."

Stiles doesn’t say anything, and Derek can’t bare to look up and see his face.

His eyes catch sight of the way his large hands so easily around Stiles’ frail wrist, the bones and tendons and veins so incredibly visible under the stretched, pale skin. He feels like he could snap the weak limb like a biscuit pretzel.

Blood begins to soak through the light grey fabric of his hoodie and Derek knows they need to go to hospital, that Stiles needs stitches or he is going to bleed out, but he doesn’t think he can physically move.

All he can do is croak out the single word: "Why?"

It takes a long moment for Stiles to reply. His voice is hoarse and weak.

"I’m sorry."

"Don’t tell me you’re sorry," Derek says. "Tell me _why!"_

That’s when he finally finds the strength to look up, to meet Stiles’ eyes.

His heart shatters in his chest.

Stiles is nothing but white skin and bone. His brown eyes look lifeless, bloodshot and brimmed with tears, sunk into purple bruised craters. His eyes, so huge and large on his thin, bony face stare back at Derek with such pain that Derek just wants to pick Stiles up and take him away from all of this.

If possible, Stiles looks more dead than he did four days ago.

"I can’t do it anymore," Stiles whispers.

The five words are like individual punches to the chest.

"I just want it to _stop._ "

Anger clouds his vision. The sight of the blood, staining his own skin too, makes him feel sick to his stomach.

"Can’t do what?" He shouts, and he knows he’ll feel guilty later about Stiles’ flinch. "What do you want to fucking stop, Stiles?"

"Everything!" Stiles screams, sudden and loud and ripped raw. "I don’t want to live, Derek! Don’t you fucking get it? I’m fucking _done!_ I don’t want to do this anymore! I give up! I quit!"

"Stiles—"

"NO!" Stiles shrieks hysterically, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Don’t tell me not to feel the way I feel! If I want to die, let me _fucking die!_ I don’t want to live anymore. I don’t want to do this all alone! I don’t want to keep thinking about my dad or my mom! I don’t want to go to school and act _normal_. I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to smile, or laugh or be _fucking happy_ because I _can’t._ I can’t fucking breathe half the time and no one fucking gets it! No one understands! I’m worthless! That’s why Theo played me! Thats why he let Donovan ra—"

Stiles cuts himself off with a strangled gasp, eyes going impossibly wide, so wide it’s like his eyeballs could actually fall out of their sockets.

Derek feels his stomach sink.

"Donovan?" He asks. "What did Donovan do?"

Stiles begins to hyperventilate. He’s shaking all over like he’s being electrocuted, mouth open like a suffocating fish, no air going in or out.

"Stiles," he cups the younger boys cheeks. "What did Donovan do?"

He thinks he already knows, but he needs Stiles to confirm it.

But, Stiles is sobbing, crying and trembling and Derek has never felt so helpless.

"Stiles," he cries, feeling his own eyes fill with hot, burning tears. "Stiles, please, talk to me."

"H-he—" Stiles starts, breaking off quickly with a hiccup. He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head.

 _Come on_ , Derek mentally urges him. _Speak to me_.

Stiles doesn’t talk, and Derek’s fear gets the better of him and his patience.

"Stiles," he murmurs as gently as he can, "Did Donovan rape you?"

The look Stiles gives him shatters every fragment of fruitless hope he had in his body. Everything crashes around him, like a gust of wind knocking down a house of cards. The walls crumble, the doors rot and the windows shatter.

 _He’s been raped_ , Derek repeats to himself. _Stiles has been_ raped.

Derek doesn't know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say or how to act. He just stares, mouth agape and heart hammering in his chest.

He’s going to fucking _kill_ Donovan.

"Y-you c-c-can't," Stiles stutters out, and that's when Derek realises he'd said that out loud. He frowns, _why_ on the tip of his tongue when Stiles cuts him off. "He-he's already d-d-dead-d."

And that. . . Derek was not expecting _that_.

The panic attack that follows is expected. Derek just pulls the teen into him, rubbing his back and talking him through it with gentle, soft words that no longer hold meaning or bring comfort. Nothing he can do will bring Stiles comfort anymore.

"Stiles," he murmurs when the teen has calmed down, "I need you to tell me everything."

And Stiles does.

 

_— tbc._


	15. mirror on the wall

Derek has never known anyone like Stiles. He’s never known anyone depressed (to his knowledge). He’s never known anyone so self-destructive, so cheated by life that they don’t want to wake up in the morning. And Stiles is exactly that: he’s been so screwed over, too many times in such a short space of time, and when he asked Derek that morning, when they were sitting in the middle of the ruined bedroom and shattered glass, blood soaking their clothes, "What is the point?", Derek hadn’t been able to answer. In that moment, with Stiles’ dark, life-changing confession hanging heavy in the air, Derek couldn’t think of a single reason worth living for.

But now, as he wraps the stark white bandage around Stiles’ sickly small wrist, so tiny that Derek can wrap his entire hand around it like a fist without even trying, he finds himself determined to give Stiles a reason. _Reason’s,_ in fact, for Stiles to keep living. He has to show Stiles that life doesn’t stop when it gets hard, that you can’t just _quit_. He needs to show Stiles that the bad, the hard and the difficult times will disappear, that there is light on the other side, that one day life will stop bashing him like a punchbag.

Talia phones him that night, the second time that day. Derek had called her when Stiles refused to go to hospital and it was clear from the gushing amounts of blood staining both their clothes that he needed stitches. So, he phoned his mother, recalling how the woman had given Cora stitches once when they were younger after she’d slipped in the kitchen and cut her arm on glass. Talia, to her credit, had been calm when Derek had phoned, talking him through every step with patience, telling him what to do after to keep it clean and stop it getting infected. Derek had ended the call when he began to bandage Stiles’ arm, and when Talia phones later that evening, the calm and collected tone is completely gone, replaced by pent up, uncharacteristic hysterics and worry.

"Is Stiles okay?" Is the first thing she says when Derek presses the phone to his ear.

"He. . ." Derek starts, and then thinks about the last few hours. He thinks about Stiles’ empty eyes when Derek had stitched up his torn arm, piercing the already red raw skin to pull the flesh back together. He thinks of the small flinches every time Derek spoke, every touch and sound he made. He thinks of the chaos of the bedroom, the destruction and mess. He thinks of having to help Stiles stand, dizzy from blood loss, exhaustion and everything else clouding his mind. He thinks about having to coax Stiles downstairs, forcing him onto one of the breakfast bar stools and making him drink a can of soda and eat a protein bar. He thinks about the fear in Stiles’ eyes as he stared down at the food, fighting the small amount of relief it could bring him if he just _ate it_. He did in the end, and by the time he finally brought the bar to his teeth, the defeat was clear as day in his eyes.

"He’s as you’d expect him to be," Derek finally decides, and something inside him just doesn’t sit right. He has to say _something_ , he has to ease the rope tied tight around his chest, he needs to lift the weight crushing him. It all comes out like vomit, involuntary and breathless, "I don’t know, mom. I don’t know what to do— I don’t know how to help him. He’s so broken, from everything and I can’t _do anything_. And he was. . . he was _so scared_ and there was so much blood and what is he doesn’t stop? What if next time, I’m not here? What if—"

"Derek, love," Talia interrupts him slowly, as if she’s still deciding on the right words to day, the right message to push across, "Hurt people, hurt people. Stiles _is_ broken. He was cracked before, but his mother dying is like throwing a baseball at a glass vase. But, broken things can be fixed, you just have to know how to put the pieces back. Take a deep breath, calm yourself, because you can’t help Stiles if you’re scared too."

"I _am_ scared, mom," he whispers into the phone, "I’m scared _for_ him."

"I know. We all are," his mother says. "I’ve been wanting to call, to ask if I can speak to him myself, but. . ."

"I know," Derek replies. "I get it. Soon, maybe."

"Maybe," Talia echoes, voice warm and hopeful. "Where is he now?"

"He’s on the couch," Derek speaks as he looks over his shoulder to where Stiles is curled up on the love-seat, body slumped under a number of blankets and eyes closed. "He’s sleeping."

"Good. He’ll need it," Talia replies, sounding relieved. "Where is your father? What has he said about all of this?"

Derek stops short from replying, because it is then that he realises he hasn’t seen his father all day, or during the evening before.

"He’s not home yet," Derek answers, not wanting to admit it’s been over a day since his father has been home. "I’m going to try and clean Stiles’ room before he gets back."

"I’m worried, Derek. I’m worried about all of you," his mother admits softly.

"Me and Cora are fine, mom."

"And Stiles?"

Derek can’t force the words out. The unspoken lie is bitter on his tongue. "I can’t answer that yet, but he’s going to be okay. I’m going to make sure of it."

The determination is clear as day. The sentence is a promise. A promise to his mother, to himself, and mostly to Stiles.

"I know you will, love," Talia says, and he can imagine her smile through the phone, so loving and soft and gentle, like a mothers touch. They’re both silent for a long time. "Are you alright?"

"I’m fine."

"Derek," his mother sighs, "Stiles isn’t going to take your help or listen to your advice is you don’t follow it yourself. Stop pretending, it’s alright to admit that you’re not okay."

"I’m okay," Derek rewords.

He’s not fine. He’s not good. He’s not alright.

He’s okay, because 'okay' doesn’t sound like a promise to anything.

 

Derek manages to clean up Stiles’ room without cutting himself on the glass - a small blessing, he guesses. He places all the glass shards into a box (after learning that black dust-bin bags don’t withstand sharp glass shards), along with other broken things along with the other broken things among the room - a broken lamp, broken pen pot, a broken frame, a broken clock. Derek takes the picture out before tossing the broken frame and places the faded, light oozed photograph of a young Stiles sitting in his fathers lap on top of the desk.

Derek can’t fix the dent in the wardrobe, but he can fix the missing furniture. That night, he orders a new mirror, a new lamp, a new clock and a new frame. If his father notices, he doesn’t need to know why.

The thought of his father makes Derek feel sick to his stomach. He wasn’t lying when he said to his mother earlier that Robert was out. Ever since Claudia’s funeral, Derek has seen even less and less of his father than before. Breakfast at the dining table has stopped, family dinners have stopped. His father leaves before the sun comes up and comes back when it too late to be awake. Derek’s pretty sure he’s spent most of his time at the office, distracting himself with the misery of his work as if to pretend the real misery at his own home doesn’t exist. And it makes Derek so _angry_ , because it’s like his father has forgotten that he has a home, that he has two children, that they have Stiles, who is more broken and shattered than the glass Derek picks up that night.

Derek shakes the thoughts of his father out of his head. He isn’t important right now - Stiles is, and what Stiles has been through and how he is now takes full priority.

Derek gathers the papers from the floor, the drawings on some of them catching his eye.

Stiles is. . . there isn’t a single word to describe the detail he puts in, the professional way he sketches. Derek feels like he’s staring at a photograph, a portrait taken by a camera instead of drawn with a memory and a pencil. Before he knows it, Derek is looking at every sheet.

Most of them are portraits. Portraits of Claudia, Lydia, Scott, more of Stiles’ friends. Some are even of Derek, or a few of Cora. There are silhouettes done in charcoals with coloured backgrounds, sunsets done with pastels and watercolours. There are pencil sketches where only the eyes are coloured in an intense blue, or brown or green. Some are unfinished, some only have faint outlines or patches of shading, and some are completed with mind blowing detail. They look effortless, like Stiles hasn’t years perfecting them.

Derek eyes the sketchbook on the floor and he can’t help himself. It’s filled with more drawings, some more rough and sketchy than the individual sheets from his walls. These seem more messy, but in a way, they look just as good. The outlines aren’t perfect, instead shaky and haphazardly. Some are even in pen.

Towards the back, the last sheets, Derek finds drawings of Theo. One of them is torn down the middle, as if Stiles was tearing out the sheet in a panicky rush but didn’t take it all. That draws Derek back to all the missing pages in the centre of the book, eyes finding the hand-written dates at the bottom of each used page.

Then, it all makes sense.

Stiles has ripped out most of the drawings during the time he was with Theo.

 

According to Google, the top six signs that someone is suffering from depression is:

**_1\. Prone to accidents._ **

Derek rakes his mind. He hasn't been around Stiles a lot, not enough to notice any patterns in his clumsiness. Derek only seems to be there when the break downs happen, and during the small amount of precious, light time they spent in New York. He can't think of any times Stiles has been clumsy.

**_2\. Using anxiety as a coverup._ **

Derek wants to scoff when he reads that. Stiles has anxiety, clear as day, but Derek can’t imagine him using it as a coverup. Stiles is almost obvious in his mental struggles - perhaps they’re so bad he’s unable to hide them anymore, but he certainly doesn’t disguise his inward battle for anxiety. He has plenty of it, but he hides it like he hides everything else.

**_3\. Overreacting to trivial things._ **

Derek scrolls straight past that one. If Stiles is one thing, it is not being overreactive. Stiles curls in on himself, like a turtle, whenever he is faced with danger or reality. He has his tantrums in private, his breakdowns behind closed doors. Derek has been Stiles go catatonically silent before. So, no, overreacting isn’t one of Stiles’ symptoms.

**_4\. Substance abuse._ **

Derek doesn't even need to wonder for this one. He’s seen it happen. He’s seen the pills. He found the bag when he was cleaning Stiles' bedroom and putting back the laundry he’d cleaned up for him. He doesn’t know if Stiles know he’s flushed them. Maybe he shouldn’t have, maybe that was a hurdle that Stiles had to jump alone, but Derek couldn’t stand the idea of something so self-destructive being in arms reach of someone so fragile. So, substance abuse? Check.

**_5\. Neglecting self-care._ **

Check.

**_6\. Overachieving._ **

Derek has to wonder when he reads the word. Stiles is clearly smart, creative, talented even, but does he overachieve? Does he push everything he has to prove something? Maybe he did, before things got so bad. Maybe that’s why he’s in a school year before students his own age, maybe that’s why he started high school a year early. Maybe he was _before_.

Derek opens another tab. He feels so mediocre, finding and researching things like this. Google is probably feeding him lies, trivial textbook information that’s either outdated or complete inhuman ways of helping. But, he can’t help it. He’s stuck and he’s desperate to help his little brother.

In the end, Google is no help. And, it is then, in his mist of frustration, that Derek realises there is no cure for depression. He can’t stop Stiles feeling the way he feels. Stiles isn’t doing this by choice, he didn’t ask to be striped of his control. Derek realises then, deep down, that he can’t fix this. He can’t fix what is happening, he can’t fix what _has_ happened. He can’t undo whatever has caused all of this, he can only make sure nothing like this ever happens again.

Despite Googles uselessness, Derek doesn’t stop researching.

He’s going to make Stiles better. He is certain of it.

 

Derek starts that night, only a day after Stiles’ meltdown. According to _Psych Central_ , the number one thing to do for someone suffering from depression is to 'be there'. So, when Derek makes him, Cora and Stiles some food that night, he makes sure to prove to Stiles that he is there for him.

The three of them sit around the grand dining table, three bowls of steaming hot spaghetti meatballs sat in front of them. Cora wolfs hers down with no avail while Derek eats slowly, keeping an eye and half of his concentration on Stiles the entire time.

The teen doesn’t even pick up his fork. He just stares, unseeingly, at a spot on the dining table. Derek can feel the hairs on his arms pick up. He knows Cora notices, knows she can feel the tension in the room that surrounds the small teen beside them like a suffocating blanket.

Stiles is wearing an oversized sweatshirt, the sleeves torn with holes and the navy blue colour so faded it’s practically grey. Derek can’t stop seeing what is underneath those baggy sleeves, beneath the blood spotted bandages. His mind begins making it up for him and he has to physically _drag_ his eyes away and down to his barely touched bowl of spaghetti.

Silence stretches on. How do you make small talk with a kid who’s mother just died and sliced his own wrists with glass? It was hard to talk to Stiles before, but now it’s pretty much impossible.

Derek has never been one for hating silence, but now, he can feel it like a hand, choking him. He fidgets, uncomfortable.

He meets Cora’s eyes, can see the struggle there too. She knows somethings have happened to Stiles, but Derek knows that she doesn’t know _what_.

Thats the thing too - Derek could have never guessed the tragedy of events Stiles has stumbled through in the last year. From dead parents, to rape, to murder and harassment, it’s no wonder really that Stiles is the way he is.

"Not hungry, Stiles?" Cora asks.

Derek looks up then, directly towards the teen who flinches when the silence is broken. He wonders, perhaps, if Stiles isn’t eating because he does feel physically sick from what has happened. Derek knows that grief makes people looks their appetite, that things like rape and murder are harsh on the stomach. Maybe _that_ is why Stiles isn’t eating.

Derek would find it easier to believe if he hasn’t caught Stiles with his finger down his throat before.

The youngest teen shakes his head at Cora’s question, his eyes empty and mouth slack with a deep frown.

Derek feels like he’s right at the beginning again.

 

Derek has always had a hard shell. he has always wore an armoured front, always presented himself as gruff and unapproachable. It was something he used to protect himself, and now he does it automatically, even when there’s nothing to be protected from.

A few days pass, and Derek becomes more restless and agitated as Stiles goes back to locking himself in his room. Derek doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he can’t bring himself to wonder. The room beyond the walls dividing them is silent, as if no one is inside. Derek struggles to resist the urge to barge in there, to make sure Stiles is hurting himself. The pills are gone, and he got rid of the blades he found underneath the mattress. The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks he made a mistake: it should have been Stiles’ job getting rid of the things that have the control over him, but Derek couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t rest knowing that those things were in the same room as him.

The same question has been whirling around in his mind: what would happen to Stiles with Donovan?

It’s not murder, because Derek knows it was self-defence. One hundred and ten percent, Stiles acted out in self-defence. Derek has no doubts about that. But, then he buried the body in the woods, and Derek doesn’t know how much time has passed since Donovan died, how much time Stiles has been festering this in his mind.

He hasn’t been acting like a criminal, but Derek is beginning to see the pattern in Stiles: when things get tough, he curls in on himself. Stiles isn’t one to openly panic, he is someone who would rather go into a corner of the room and suffer alone.

Derek feels like he hasn’t fully processed the realisation that there is a _dead body_ somewhere in the forest around his house, someone who _Stiles_ buried, someone who abused, raped and _hurt_ Stiles.

It truly is a cluster-fuck of a situation.

Derek sighs out loud, dropping his head on his folded arms at the breakfast bar. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but he doesn’t have the mental energy to force himself to go back to sleep. His mind is too active, like a buzzing live wire. And every time another thought comes barreling in, it shocks him and he’s awake again.

 

Robert comes home on Wednesday night. Derek hears the familiar sound of his car engine cutting off outside before the front door is opening and closing.

Robert is gone the next morning, and Derek didn’t even get a chance to say hello.

 

At school the following Monday, the rumours hit Derek like a fright train. He hasn’t been attending BHHS for the last week, calling both him and Cora in to say they’re still grieving the loss of their step-mother. The receptionist didn’t question it, just sent her condolences and said they could come back whenever they were ready.

Stiles is still at home. Derek checks on him in the morning, finding him curled up in a ball under the dozens of covers of his bed, looking impossibly small but thankfully sleeping.

Derek swoops through the overcrowded hallway of Beacon Hills High, weaving through the standing students to get to his locker. He stuffs his book in there hastily before making a quick break and dashing off. . . only to bump into Lydia Martin.

She looks up at him in surprise, red lips opening as if to snap at the intruder of her personal space, until she recognises it’d Derek. Something changes in her face.

"Derek, you’re back," she says, sounding breathless.

"Hi, Lydia," he replies awkwardly.

The strawberry blonde suddenly looks sad, "You okay?"

Derek nods wordlessly. There’s a long, pregnant pause.

"How’s Stiles?" She asks quietly, almost hesitantly.

"He’s still at home," Derek says. What else can he say? How can he put Stiles’ situation into words without telling Lydia everything? Does she already know everything? Derek doesn’t know who Stiles has told. He could be the first, or he could be one of the last.

"Not good then," Lydia replies, nodding. She looks down at her feet, and Derek can imagine she is giving herself a mental pep-talk.

And then, she looks up, her green eyes blazing with confidence that screams _Lydia Martin._ "I want to see him. Can me and Scott come over this weekend?"

Derek finds himself nodding. "Of course. I think. . . I think Stiles needs that."

Lydia finally cracks a smile. "Perfect. I’ll bring the movies."

And then, she’s walking away, heels clipping in her wake.

 

The next evening is when it all goes to shit again.

Derek is in the kitchen, researching ways to help depressed people on Google again because he is making himself frustrated as he can’t help Stiles, when he gets up to make himself a mug of coffee.

He doesn’t hear Stiles come in, and doesn’t know he is there until he turns around to see the teen staring by his open laptop, eyes on the screen.

Eyes on the Google tabs.

Eyes on the methods to help depressed people.

shit.

Derek opens his mouth, and then promptly closes it, and then opens it again. He looks like a gaping fish out of water, mouth flapping pathetically.

"Stiles. . ." he finally chokes out.

The younger teen looks up slowly, the bright whiskey eyes wide. He’s dressed in his normal attire: skinny jeans that struggle to cling to his bone-thin legs and a sweatshirt that swamps his body and is so big it reaches down to his knees. Derek has been meaning to ask Stiles if he could change his bandages again, but since Stiles seemed to come out of his shock of what had happened and he had retreated back to his bedroom, he hasn’t let Derek anywhere near him.

Derek swallows thickly. "I. . ."

"What is this?" Stiles asks, voice blank. His eyes flick back down the screens before they come back up to Derek’s face.

"It’s. . ." Derek is still lost for words. "I want to help you, Stiles."

"I don’t need help," Stiles replies instantly. His voice and eyes are hard, jaw clenched so hard Derek can imagine his teen grinding together.

The words bubble a surprise burst of anger low in Derek’s stomach.

"Oh my— Stiles!" He snaps. "You are not _fine!_ You have not been 'fine' in a long damn time!"

Stiles opens his mouth, most likely to argue, but Derek cuts him off before he can get a word out.

"And that is okay, Stiles," he insists. "You have been through a lot—"

"Don’t patronise me," Stiles seethes, hissing, and it’s the most emotion Derek has heard in his voice in a long time, so long Derek can’t even remover the last time.

"I’m not—" Derek cuts himself short with a sigh, all the anger and frustration crumbing. "Stiles, I just want to help you. You have every right to be angry with me for this," he motions to the computer screen, "It was a bad idea. I was stupid, a dick, and I’m sorry for going behind your back. But, I’m not sorry for trying to help. I’m not sorry for trying to be there for you. I’m not sorry for trying to _care_ about you."

"You don’t care."

Derek sighs exasperatedly. "Do you honestly believe that? After everything, _everything_ , do you still believe I don’t care?"

Tears begin to well up in the younger boys eyes. "No one cares."

Derek doesn’t want to shout. He doesn’t want to lose his temper with Stiles, especially now he knows what the teen has actually been through, but it’s getting hard. Stiles is so stubborn, so oblivious, so _frustrating_ in his inability to understand that not everyone in the world wants to hurt him.

Derek tells him exactly so, "Not everyone wants to hurt you, Stiles. You know I don’t, you know I’m here for you, I’m just trying to. . ." Derek words die on his tongue, and a sudden supply of courage sparks in his gut. "Y’know what, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to help you, how to make things better—"

"You can’t—"

"— but I’m _trying_ , because I want to help you, I want you to be happy and I don’t want all the colossal shit that has happened to you to rule the rest of your life. You are more than your scars, Stiles. But, I can’t do this on my own. I can’t help you on my own. I’m not expecting you to get better over night. I’m not expecting you to suddenly change, to suddenly be okay and happy and healed, but I need to you to try too. You need to _want_ this, Stiles. I know you don’t want to be Loe this, to be so hurt and sad and in pain. I know you feel like a burden, like an outcast in your own home and at the moment, you probably are. But, it’s not me and Cora making you an outcast. You’re shutting yourself out, and while I don’t blame you for doing that, how am I meant to help you when I don’t think you want help?"

Derek didn’t realise how much he was saying until he stopped. He didn’t realise what he’s said until his mouth stopped moving and his brain finally caught up.

Derek didn’t even get a chance to see Stiles’ face and his expression before the teen is running forward and. . .

. . . hugging him.

Small, thin arms wrap around his middle, a body crashing against his own as it tries feebly to make itself smaller.

It take Derek a moment to hug back, and when he does, he feels a blast of warmth flourish in his chest, seeping into his bones and loosening the thick, suffocating rope tied around his lungs.

Stiles practically melts under the soft touch of Derek’s arms enveloping him, pulling him in and holding him.

"Hurt people hurt people," Derek recites, something he remembers his mother telling him days before. "I don’t want you to be hurt, Stiles. Please, just tell me how I can help you. What can I do?"

Dampness makes Derek’s t-shirt stick to his skin. Stiles is crying, tears finally slipping free over the surface.

It takes a few minutes for Stiles to reply.

"I d-don’t want to be like t-this," he sobs softly, muffled by his face hidden in Derek’s chest. "I don’t want to b-be hurt, or to hurt people, but I c-can’t s-s-stop."

"I know," Derek says, "but maybe with some help, you might be able to stop. You just have to let me, Stiles. You need to let me help you."

"I don’t know how," Stiles whispers brokenly.

"Neither do I," Derek replies. "We can do it together, though."

 

Saturday comes before Derek expects it and before he knows it, Lydia and Scott are standing on the other side of the front door.

Derek awkwardly lets them in, unsure of how he is planning on getting Stiles to come downstairs to join them.

Scott looks at him with his usual wide, brown eyes. "How’s he been?"

"He’s upstairs," Derek replies, stuffing his hands into his pockets after he closes the front door behind them. He’d told them at school about Stiles’ main meltdown two weekends before. He told them about his arms, about flushing the pills and hiding the blade. The pair of them looked terrified when he’d told them, like they wanted to bolt and find Stiles just to take him away from everything. Derek needed their reassurance that he had done the right thing, and they gave it to him.

He shifts from foot to foot. "I don’t. . . I haven’t actually told him we’re going this."

Lydia looks like she wants to roll her eyes, but instead, she gives him a stiff nod.

"We brought pizza," Scott says, smiling as he holds up a white plastic store bag, "and Lydia picked out some movies."

Derek closes his eyes. "Please tell me you didn’t bring _The_ _Notebook._ "

He opens his eyes to find Lydia staring at him, one sharp, thinly plucked eyebrow raised. "I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Hale. But no, we didn’t bring _The_ _Notebook_."

"We chose films we know Stiles likes," Scott adds.

Derek finds himself smiling slightly. "Thanks, guys."

"So," Lydia breezes, clapping her hands together and swiftly gliding further into the house. "Scott, you go get Stiles and the both of you need to bring down duvets, blankets and pillows. Derek, talk these pizzas and put them in the oven and make drinks while I put the first movie on."

Scott nods first, handing the bag of pizzas to Derek before dashing up the stairs, all the while staring at the huge house around him in awe-eyes.

Derek wonders then, if Stiles has ever invited Scott over. He knows Lydia has been here, but he doesn’t know if Scott has.

"Derek, pizzas don’t cook themselves," Lydia snips.

The older teen jerks into action, going straight into the kitchen to turn on the oven and throw the food in. He turns around and almost jumps when Lydia is standing there.

"Before Stiles and Scott come down, is there anything I should know?"

Panic grips him. "Pardon?"

Lydia looks unimpressed. "How is he really, Derek?"

 _How is he?_ Derek want so laugh. He wants to scream, _how the fuck do you think he is? He’s been beaten, raped, harassed, watched both his parents die right in front of him, been cheated, screwed over, and ripped off by almost everyone in his life!_

He doesn’t say that, though. He can’t. Lydia doesn’t know - no one does.

"He’s exactly as you’d expect any teen to be when they watch their last parent die," Derek replies. It’s half honest.

Lydia nods slowly. "And how are you?"

"She wasn’t my mom," Derek shrugs, going to the cupboard to get four glasses out.

"No, but she was still someone you lived with," Lydia replies. "Just because she wasn’t your mother doesn’t mean you can’t mourn her."

"I know, and I have," he says heatedly as he slams the glasses down with unspent aggression.

A hand lands on his shoulder, gentle and light. He closes his eyes and hangs his head.

"It’s okay to let it effect you, Derek. It doesn’t make you any less of a person to be upset," she says. "And, I didn’t just mean about Claudia. I meant Stiles too."

He looks up. "What?"

"Depressed doesn’t just effect one person, it effects everyone around them too," she explains. "I wanted to know if _you_ are okay."

"I’m fine."

"You know, if you keep saying that, you’re going to start sounding like Stiles," Lydia murmurs before she scoops up the glasses and swoops out of the kitchen like a breath of air.

 _You’re going to start sounding like Stiles_.

The words echo in Derek’s head like a scream inside a cave. How is he meant to help Stiles get better if Derek is ignoring his own problems?

He feels a twitch in his stomach, a twitch, sharp and painful as guilt washes through him.

Maybe he’s not fine. Maybe he’s not okay. How is he meant to hurt Stiles if he’s hurt too? How is he meant to help Stiles get better if Derek is still trying to deal with his own problems?

He’s broken out of his thoughts when he hears footsteps coming down the stairs and walks around the kitchen island unit in time to see Scott walking down the stairs with arms full of duvets and blankets. Derek’s eyes zero in on the small figure behind him.

Stiles looks like a ghost floating down the stairs, pillows hugged closely to his chest. He looks so sick it’s like a punch to Derek’s gut, but the young teen is up and out of his room, so Derek forces himself to count it as a win.

Scott is grinning like a child as he trots down the stairs, and Lydia smiles a million-dollar smile for the first time that night.

"Hey, kiddo," she says, rushing forward and pulling Stiles into her. Derek sees a small arm wind around the girls waist in a feeble, one-armed attempt to hug her back. "I missed you."

Derek feels breathless as he watches. He turns to Scott, taking some of the duvets and moving towards the couches. The TV is set and ready to play _Captain America: The First Avenger_ , playing the theme song softly on a low volume.

"Hey, Derek," Scott comes up to his side, murmuring softly. "Listen, I just wanted to say that you’re doing good with Stiles. Really, he’s. . . he’s not okay, but I. . . you’re an amazing older brother to him. You care about him, and Stiles needs more people like that."

Derek can’t find the words to say as he stares at the younger male, words sinking in slowly like melting butter on a hot pan.

"I want to help him," he finally chokes out, a cracking whisper. He looks down at the fluffy blankets him and Stiles had brought down. "I want. . . I want to help him get better but— _shit._ Scott, it’s so _hard_ and I don’t even know if anything I’m doing is working and—"

"Hey, hey, buddy," Scott cuts him off gently, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder, "Take it from me, someone who has been friends with Stiles since he started high school, you’re doing great. You’re probably the best help Stiles can get. He needs someone like you, like you and your family. You guys have been doing amazing."

"My family?"

"Stiles told me about you and Cora taking him to New York to visit your mom. He. . . it did him good. He was good when he got back, for a while at least," Scott says, smiling. "Stiles hasn’t really had a family since his parents split, and then his dad died and everything went to shit."

Derek scoffs, "Tell me about it," he closes with a sigh, looking over his shoulder to see Lydia talking to Stiles still. "I just really want to help him."

When he looks back at Scott, the latter is smiling at him. "Believe me, Derek. You’re honestly doing great."

The words Scott speaks hit home harder than anything else the teen has ever said to Derek.

"Hey," Scott says suddenly over Derek’s shoulder. Derek turns around to see Lydia guiding Stiles towards the couches with an arm around the younger boys shoulder. "Ready to get this show on the road?"

"Of course," Lydia replies, beaming.

Lydia takes the cuddle chair while Scott, Stiles and Derek squeeze together on the sofa. All of them are wrapped in blankets and duvets, backs on soft cushions.

Cora comes home halfway through the first movie, grabbing the pizza from the kitchen before dropping down wordlessly next to Lydia, flashing them all a grin.

Derek notices how Stiles doesn’t reach for a slice when they’re laid out on the coffee table, and after sharing a glance with Scott, Derek placed a small slice onto a paper plate and held it towards the snuggled teen between them. Stiles had looked at the pizza for a long moment before meeting Derek’s eyes, fear clear in the whiskey circles. Derek doesn’t know how it happened, how he had wordlessly convinced Stiles to eat it, but somehow, the teen did it. It took ten minutes to get through the small slice, but Stiles handed back the paper plate with only the crust on it.

Derek has never felt more proud and pleased.

Halfway through the second movie, Derek looks down to find Stiles’ eyes closed, breathing slow. The light but solid weight of the younger teen curled against Derek’s side feels more reassuring than he expected it would. He feels something new glow warm in his chest, sudden like a burst of an open soda can.

_You’re an amazing older brother._

_You’re probably the best help Stiles can get._

_Believe me, Derek. You’re honestly doing great_.

Derek winds an arm around the small ball against him, and Stiles melts further into him like warming ice cream. He eyes the deep, bruise-coloured bags under Stiles’ eyes and is thankful to finally see him sleeping.

He’s going to make sure Stiles gets better, even if it takes him years, decades. He _will_ help Stiles.

They’re brothers, and that is what brothers do.

 

The following Monday, Derek finds Theo at school. He corners him in the locker room at the beginning of lunch, finding the teen pulling a shirt on, apparently just coming out of practice.

"Hey, Derek," Theo smiles when he see’s him, and Derek is ready to snap the moment the words come out of the boys mouth. "What’s up—"

He’s cut off when Derek’s first collides with his nose. Theo’s head whips back with a horrific _crack_ , blood gushing from his nose.

Theo is knocked on his ass, stumbling over his own feet as his hands fly to his face. Blood continues to spill from his nose, drenching his face and fresh t-shirt. "What the fuck—!"

"I know what you and Donavan did," Derek snarls, animalistic and hostile, "and I just want you to know, that if you come anywhere near Stiles, if you speak to him, or even _look_ at him, I am going to break every single god-damn bone in your body until you understand the pain Stiles has been through."

"Derek—"

"You have no idea what you have done," Derek snaps. "You’re actually _that fucking dense!_ "

Theo’s hand is still cupping his nose in feeble attempt to stop the blood from soaking his front. "Listen, Derek—"

Derek rolls his eyes so aggressively he can feel his head spin from it. He turns around with a growl, storming out of the locker room with Theo’s shouts and calls following behind him.

There’s a throb in his hand, but he ignores it.

He did it for Stiles.

*****

Going back to school is one of the hardest things Stiles ever has done. His chest feels like it’s trapped in a slowly tightening clamp, his lungs being crushed even more with every passing moment as the car he’s sitting inside moves. He’s in the back of the Camaro, Derek and Cora in the front. The car is silent apart from the radio playing on the lowest level of volume, so quiet Stiles wouldn’t be able to even hear it if he was listening.

He doesn’t know if he can do this. He doesn’t know if he can face it all again. He doesn’t know if he can walk the same halls, hear the spinning rumours, speak to the teachers again. He doesn’t know if he can handle the way people are going to look at him.

Everyone must know by now what has happened, or at least they will know that Claudia has died. It was the story of the town when his mother was diagnosed, and it’s unsurprising how fast fresh news travels around in such a small town.

When Derek pulls into the Beacon Hills High School car par, Stiles feels like his chest is going to explode under his skin.

He physically jumps when a hand lands on his knee. He tears his fear filled eyes away from the window and finds Derek half-bent around the drivers seat, hand on his knee, looking at him with a face etched with concern.

"Stiles," he says, as if checking that he has Stiles’ attention. "You okay?"

The younger teen doesn’t trust his voice. He nods shakily, swallowing convulsively.

Derek doesn’t look at all convinced, and nor is Stiles surprised. He can nod all he wants, but he is clearly far from okay and he knows it. Regardless, Derek nods back, his hand moving away a moment later. The engine stops suddenly like a cut line and Cora is quickly climbing out, Derek following close behind. Stiles is moving without thinking, climbing out and clutching his rucksack tightly with shaking hands.

He fails to hide his surprise when Cora rounds in front of him. She stands stock-still for a moment, not saying a word. Stiles stares back, his heart pounding. He can already feel people staring at them, at _him_.

Cora takes one quick, brief glance around before she looks back at him, expression twisted. She raises a hand, but drops it immediately when Stiles flinches. He didn’t know what she was going to do, be it hit him or place a hand on his shoulder in comfort, he couldn’t stop himself from shying from it. He wants to believe Cora wouldn’t hurt him, but he’s reminded once again that a lot of people he didn’t think would ever hurt him have. He doesn’t know how far his trust can stretch.

"Fine me if you need anything," she says. "Really. _Anything._ "

Stiles stares in surprise.

Cora flashes him a smile, and then she’s turning quickly, marching away with hurried footsteps and her face ducked towards the floor. Stiles wonders if she’s embarrassed.

He stares at Cora’s retreating back for so long he barely notices Derek appearing at his side.

Derek doesn’t leave his side throughout the entire time he walks to class. He stays with him when he goes to his locker, when he dodges the eyes that are drawn to him as he walks down the school corridors. Derek stays by his side when Scott and Lydia find them, running up to him and yanking him into suffocating hugs. Derek doesn’t leave, and neither one of Stiles’ friends seem bothered. Scott and Lydia act as if it’s normal now, and Allison talks to him with such familiarity as if he’s been hanging out with them for ages. _Maybe he has_ , Stiles realises. He hasn’t been to school for a while, it shouldn’t be a surprise to him if things have changed.

Before first period, Stiles is called to the counsellors office. He flashes Lydia a terrified look, as the schools counsellor is her mother, but Lydia touches his shoulder and tells him it will be fine.

It will most certainly _not_ be fine.

Stiles doesn’t want to go in when he gets to the door. He stands outside, staring at the closed blinds for as long as he can.

The door opens without him touching it, and Natalie Martin stands in the doorway.

"Stiles," she greets, almost professionally, "Come in."

 _I don’t want to_ , Stiles wants to say. He knows he has to: he promised Derek he’d try and get better, that he’d let people help. If he wants to stop hurting everyone around him, he needs to stop hurting himself first.

He walks into the room like an animal entering a predators den, slow and cautious, hesitant and scared. He looks around with searching eyes.

"Come, sit," Lydia’s mother says, walking around him and dropping down in the black leather chair behind the desk. Stiles sits slowly into the plush chair on the other side, sinking down into the clean leather upholstery.

Natalie stares at him from across the table, hands clasped together on the desk top.

"Stiles, I wanted to start of with saying that you can say whatever you want in here, and that this room is a safe place to talk," she begins.

"Why am I here?" Stiles asks, cutting off the beginning of her speech. He doesn’t want to know how safe he is to talk, he wants to know why he’s been dragged to the guidance counsellors office the day he comes back.

Natalie shifts like the question makes her uncomfortable. Or maybe the answer to it does.

"Stiles, you have had a rough time, and the school employs people like me to help people like you get through these tough times," she explains. "The school and I have decided that it is the best idea, with the curtsy of your previous therapist, Marin Morrell, to continue your appointments here at school."

"I didn’t ask for this."

"No, the school believe it is a good idea," Natalie replies. "You have a history, Stiles. Crueler than any other students I have seen walk through my door. I want to help you, I want to make sure you’re okay and you’re safe."

"I have Derek to do that," Stiles deflects. "Lydia and Scott. I don’t need more therapy."

Natalie sighs, nodding. "You might believe that, but the school do not. We only need to do a few sessions, a few meet ups a couple of times a week. You’re not going to be forced to do this, Stiles. This is a free place, somewhere I want you to know you can come if you need to talk."

Stiles frowns, confused. "You’re not forcing me to do this?"

She shakes her head. "I cannot force you to do anything. The only thing I can do is make sure this is the best environment for you."

"Okay," Stiles replies, drawing out the word and nodding slowly. "Thanks, I guess."

Natalie flashes him a broad smile, and in that moment, she couldn’t look anymore like Lydia.

"I am sorry about your mother, Stiles," she says, and despite Stiles knowing it was coming, it doesn’t make the words hit any softer. "She was a wonderful woman, and it was such a dreadful way to go."

He swallows dryly. "It was."

"And how are you?"

"Fine," Stiles replies. Instantly, he can hear Derek’s voice in his ears, screaming at him that he is _not fine_. "I m-mean. . . I’m. . ."

He wants to ask how she expects him to be. She doesn’t know everything, but she knows about his parents. Surely _that_ qualifies as a good enough reason to not be fine.

But then, Stiles realises this is what she wants. She’s expecting him to reply that he’s fine. She’s asking so he’ll admit that he’s not.

It feels like a trick question.

Natalie smiles. "I want you to know that you can come here whenever you want, Stiles. If you ever need to talk, if you ever need to say something. If you need help, I am here. My door is always open."

Stiles wants to tell her she sounds exactly like a counsellor’s advertisement, but he refrains. Instead, he nods, "Thanks."

He stands and leaves before she can say another word.

He makes it to his first period before the bell rings. He sits at the back of his history class, Allison by his side. The brunette flashes him warm smiles every time he looks up. His hands shake when he tries to take notes, and when the class ends, Allison nudges his side and says she’ll send him copies of her own notes for him. Stiles doesn’t say anything, but he appreciates it.

All the teachers looks at him as he expected: a suicidal teenager who lost both of his parents. Stiles wonders how much they really know, if they know the extent of what had happened at home, his mothers illness and her decline. He wonders if they know about everything else - the things _no one_ can know. The things he cried to Derek about when he was at his lowest, bleeding out on his bedroom floor, the things he’d only said because the weight of it all was just too much.

He doesn’t go to lunch. No one forces him, Lydia just sends him a form look the clearly says _We’re trusting you not to do anything stupid. We will know if you do._

He goes outside, avoiding the rush and crows and noise of the cafeteria. He has no appetite - no that that’s a change - but the last thing he needs is to be surrounded by a hall of staring eyes.

He goes to where he’s spent most of his high schools years: the trash corner around the back of the building. The old bench he always laid on is gone, so he opts for laying on the top of a closed dustbin lid.

The taste of the first shot of nicotine in his mouth makes him dizzy and bring Stiles an odd sense of grounding he didn’t realise he needed. He slumps against the cold plastic he lays on and stares up at the cloud-blanketed sky.

He doesn’t know how he manages the whole first day back, but he’s grateful when Derek and Cora leave him alone in his room for the rest of the evening and night.

 

The second day back at school, Theo finds him.

He’s around the back again, smoking his way through a cigarette in his secret place instead of join gin everyone in the overcrowded lunch hall. No one forces him to join them again, giving him an assuring squeeze on his shoulder before departing to the lunch hall.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching. He doesn’t see the figure round the corner. He just hears _his_ voice.

"Stiles?"

Stiles shoots up so fast the world spins nauseatingly. He loses his abalone, topples off the bind and lands hard on his ass and hands. He scurries back, like a cornered animal, his palms stinging from the gravel and dirt scarping the skin.

Theo’s hands fly up in surrender. His face is white, mouth agape and eyes comically wide.

"Stiles—"

D-don’t!" Stiles shouts, voice cracking. "D-don’t. . ."

Theo doesn’t say anything else. He just watches Stiles, eyes trained on him like he’s approaching a traumatised child. Stiles wants to laugh at metaphor: is he really much different?

His breathing is broken, chest heaving but no air is filling it. He’s choking on nothing, heart beat through the roof.

 _Is this how I die?_ He wonders briefly. In front of the one person he can’t face, choking on nothing but his past. He’s not ready to die. If he’s going to die, he’s going to do it his way, not because of Theo _fucking_ Raeken.

Derek would be proud of him thinking that too.

He doesn’t know how he does it, but somehow he manages to suck in a strangled breath, hold it, and exhale it without choking and passing out. He does it a few more times, the fresh, cool oxygen burning his deprived lungs and chest.

Theo hasn’t moved when Stiles’ blurred vision clears. He’s still standing where he had been, arms now down at his sides instead of raised by his head.

"Stiles. . ." he starts again, and even Stiles, through the cloud of panic still surrounding him, can see Theo struggling with himself. "I. . . I wanted to talk."

The laugh that escapes Stiles surprises him.

"What’s there to talk about?" He asks, and he’s proud of the level in his tone, the drip of venom clinging to his words.

Theo’s face falls even more. "I. . . I wanted—"

Stiles is up before he can think about it, and Theo cuts himself off, watching him.

"I don’t care what you _want_ ," Stiles snaps, feeling weak from the tears in his eyes. "I don’t give a _shit_ about what you fucking want!"

"Okay," Theo replies slowly. "But, please, just let me—"

The punch comes out of nowhere. Stiles doesn’t even realise his fist is moving until pain explodes in his knuckles and Theo is falling back with a startled grunt. Blood gushes from his nose, drenching his face and t-shirt almost immediately. Stiles doesn’t know if he broke it, of if he’s broken his hand, but he couldn’t have cared less.

He watches Theo as he cradles his throbbing fist to his chest.

Theo has his head tipped up, hand cupping his bleeding nose. He looks at Stiles, face still facing the sky, "Feel better now?"

"Not even a little."

Theo huffs a laugh, squeezing his eyes shut. Stiles feels satisfied when Theo groans loudly.

"Fuck," he curses. "I was _not_ expecting that. What is it with your family? First Derek, now you."

"I should do worse," Stiles practically snarls, completely blanking the mention of Derek. The words tumbling from his mouth without consent.

 _I murdered his best friend,_ he reminds himself. _I_ murdered _his best friend! Is he the one to blame for all of this? Shouldn’t_ I _be the one apologising?_

 _No_ , he decides. _Donovan. . . Donovan had it coming._

He doesn’t tell himself Donovan deserved it. His stomach is swimming with the familiar nausea at the thoughts rushing around his head. He’s a murdered, but Donovan was a rapist. They’re not that much worse than each other. And Theo. . . Theo is just an asshole.

Theo nods. "I deserved that. I deserve everything."

 _Damn straight_.

Stiles doesn’t respond verbally. He can’t think of the words to say.

Theo is still looking at him, his hand curled over the base of his nose. "I am sorry, Stiles."

 _Sorry doesn’t undo everything_ , he thinks.

"Okay," he says.

"I’m really sorry."

"Okay."

"It’s not okay."

"You’re right. It’s not."

"I—. . . my nose _really_ hurts."

"Good."

"You don’t mean that."

"I actually think I do."

Theo looks at like he’s been waiting for him to finally say that. "Good," he replies with a curt nod. "You needed to do that. I hope. . . I hope it helps."

"Is that why you’re here?" Stiles asks. He’s still standing a generous distance away, the throbbing in his hand ebbing away as the bruised knuckles become numb. "So I’d punch you?"

"No. I wasn’t. . . I wasn’t _expecting_ you to punch me, but. . . I just. . . I needed to do _something_."

"What about staying away from me?" Stiles asks. "That’s 'something'."

"I can’t do that anymore," Theo replies, and Stiles is almost startled at how _soft_ he sounds. "I can’t stay away, Stiles. I. . . you meant _so much_ to me, I can’t just forget about—"

"Try."

"I have tried," Theo stresses. His hand falls away from his face, revealing the dried bloody mess of his nose. "I’ve tried _so_ hard, Stiles, because I know what Donovan did and—"

"No," Stiles snarls. "No, do _not_ say anything. Do not— how could you—"

"Because I need you to know I didn’t plan it!" Theo interrupts, throwing up his hands. "I had no idea Donovan was going to do _that!"_

"What did you know he was going to do? What were _you_ doing while he was doing that to me? To _me!"_ Stiles screams, shrieking so loud his throat burns with it. "Where were you when your best friend fucking ra—"

He chokes off. He can’t say it. He couldn’t say it to Derek, and he can’t say it to Theo.

The older boys face is a painting of misery.

"I’m sorry," he whispers.

"I don’t give a fuck," Stiles snaps, but it’s weak and wavering. His eyes are burning with the tears, his hands shaking and his body feeling exposed. Anxiety crawls over him, the tiny legs dancing across his skin. The ants are back.

"Donavan’s dead," Theo says. "If it makes you feel any better, he was declared missing over the summer. The search didn’t last long. They declared him dead after a few weeks. I don’t know what happened, or where he’s gone, but he’s gone. He already lived a few towns away, and when I phoned his parents they told me they’d moved to Kentucky."

 _I should tell him,_ Stiles thinks. _I killed his best friend. He deserves to know he didn’t just leave, but instead he is buried somewhere in the Preserve with a knife wound._

What about his parents? They’ve lost their son. Stiles _killed_ their son.

Do _they_ deserve the know the truth?"

Should he just come clean?

"Stiles?"

He jerks out of his head physically. Theo is looking at him with that _fucking_ look again. Stiles wants to punch him again, but he also wants to fall to his knees and cry until he can’t breathe.

"Will you ever forgive me?"

_What am I forgiving you for?_

Stiles wonders then, if he is punching Theo for something he didn’t even do.

"You had no idea," he doesn’t phrase it as a question. He already knows the answer, but he wants- he _needs_ to hear it again.

Theo shakes his head. "I didn’t know until later. I promise, Stiles, I was looking for you. I looked for so long, and when someone finally told me they’d seen you with Donovan, I looked harder," he breaks off, looking down at the ground under his own feet. "I found him in the club, dancing with a girl and said you’d ran out on him."

Tears roll down Stiles’ cheeks, he isn’t sure exactly _why_ he’s crying.

"I don’t know," he rasps.

Theo looks up, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"I don’t know if I can forgive you," Stiles repeats.

Theo nods, his lips curling up into a gentle smile.

It’s not forgiveness, it’s not acceptance, but it’s something.

 

Derek asks about the bruised knuckles that evening, and when Stiles tells him he punched Theo, Derek just smiles.

 

Somehow, its easier the next day.

Stiles is sitting out on the bleachers, enjoying his free period. His head is buried in his sketchbook, drawing a pair of hands, when he sees someone sit down next to him. He looks up,and can’t understand why he doesn’t flinch or revolt at the sights of Theo sitting next to him, _inches_ from him.

They don’t say anything. Theo doesn’t even try to start a conversation, and Stiles just tries to pretend he’s not there by continuing to draw. Surprisingly, it’s easier than he expected it to be.

He sneaks a glance to look at Theo’s face, and instantly his eyes are drawn to his nose that is a watercolour splash of blues, purples and red. Stiles did a number him. It’s clearly not broken, but fucking sore. The pride in his chest makes him feel a mile better.

When he pulls out his box of straights, it feels like a habit when he offers one to Theo. The older boy takes it with a beaming, surprised smile. Stiles is surprised too.

He lights his own, and is grateful when Theo lights his with his own lighter.

Somehow, it all feels surreal. Stiles wonders if he’s dreaming. It feels both wrong and right to be sitting there with Theo, smoking cigarettes like they did all those months ago. When time was _good_.

Can he go back to that? Can Stiles feel like that again? Will he _ever_ feel good, and carefree, and light like that again? Or will he always be scarred but the mayhem of his teenage years?

People recover, Stiles knows, but can he? Is _he_ strong enough?

"I crashed my car."

Stiles looks up from his sketchbook. He hasn’t even realised he’d stopped sketching, his hand frozen and trembling the page. He looks up and finds Theo is still staring ahead of them, out over the empty lacrosse pitch.

"What?"

"Last night," Theo replies. "I was driving back from the library, some late night studying, and there was a rabbit in the road. I swerved to avoid it and drove straight into a tree."

Stiles can’t help the little snort he lets out.

"It’s not funny," Theo says, but he’s chuckling too. "I crashed my SUV for a fucking rabbit!"

"You’d go to hell for killing a rabbit."

"It was just sitting in the middle of the road!" Theo cries, laughing. "It just didn’t _move_ and I couldn’t hit it!"

Stiles laughs. He genially laughs, and he’s almost startled at the long-lost sound that comes out of him.

"My parents were furious," Theo adds, "I’m pretty sure my mom had an aneurysm when I Tod her."

"Just think of the happy bunnies."

"Fucking bunnies."

They don’t say anything after that. It was random. The small moment of normalcy felt good- more than good. It felt _great_.

It’s Finstock who catches them.

He comes wandering out onto the field, eyes finding them on the bleachers. He walks over, and Stiles freezes.

 _Great,_ he thinks. _Now I’m going to get caught for smoking. The last thing the Hale’s need is for me to get suspended_.

Finstock comes straight up to the bleachers, eyes on them the entire time. And then, he’s reaching down onto the first bench to pick up his clipboard that he must have left out there.

"You better quit that stuff soon, Raeken," he says. "You’re a lacrosse player, not a drug-addict. I can’t have one of my best players dropping on me because their lungs don’t work anymore."

Theo blushes. "Sorry, Coach."

Finstock nods, eyes sliding over to Stiles. Stiles might have imagined them softening slightly.

And then, he’s gone, walking back across the field towards the building.

They don’t say a thing until he’s disappeared inside.

 

Stiles flushes the rest of his pills that night. He knows Derek took the main bag from his draw, but he doesn’t know what Derek did with them, whether he flushed them or binned them. He could have driven out into the Preserve and buried them for all Stiles acres, as long as they’re _gone_.

He wants to swallow them all back. He wants to disappear into he hazy relief they bring, but he doesn’t. He bursts through the front door as soon as he’s at the Hale house, marching up the stairs and into his bedroom. He gets down on his stomach and reaches under his bed, grabbing the clear zip-lock bag. His back-up ones, he remembers.

He marches straight into the bathroom, opens the lid and chucks them straight into the bowl of the toilet.

He yanks the flush down before he can change his mind, watching as the water begins to flood the bowl, and then he feels it.

Despair. Desperation. Regret.

Strength. Relief. Clean.

He feels conflicted, torn between walking away and diving his hands into the bowl to dig out as many as he can before they’re all flushed away.

He watches them disappear, watches as they’re taken away from him.

He must stare at the empty bowl for a decent five minutes after they’re gone. He can’t look away. He can’t believe he did it.

He hears a noise, looks over his shoulder and finds Derek standing in the doorway. He doesn’t come in, just stands there, flashing Stiles a quick smile before he’s disappearing again.

Stiles knows that smile, as small and quick as it was, he read it like a clear neon sign.

Derek is proud.

 

The good streak doesn’t last 24 hours. Stiles wasn’t addicted to the pills, but after a particular rough night terror and panic attack, he craves nothing more than the mindless float the pills brought.

The following night he flushed them, Stiles stumbles out of his bed in a flurry of choked pants and shaking limbs, staggering out into the hallway and into the bathroom. He doesn’t even strip his pyjamas before he’s diving into the shower and yanking the handle down.

Thats how Derek finds him half an hour later: sitting in a huddled heap at the bottom of the shower, the water long gone cold, the spray soaking his clothes and skin.

Stiles has no idea what the time is. He knows it’s early morning, as it’s still dark out and he didn’t settle down to sleep until gone two. Despite this, Derek is still up.

The older boy doesn’t say anything as he crouches down beside him, hands on his knees.

"Stiles. . ." he says.

Stiles cuts him off with a loud hiccup. It jars his shaking body, a full-body jerk, rippling through him like a violent wave. He’s hugging his knees to his chest, making himself as small as possible. Donovan’s face won’t stop flashing behind his closed eyes, so he’s forcing himself to keep them open, staring at the tiled wall opposite him. He drags them away slowly, finding the energy to meet Derek’s eyes.

 _I must look so pathetic,_ he thinks. After everything he’s managed to do in the past week, this feels like one huge step backwards.

Is this a form of regression?

Derek says nothing as he grabs a towel from the rack. Stiles watches him reach up and turn off the water, as he bends down to wrap the towel around him and picks him up out of the shower like he weighs no more than an infant.

Derek sets him down on the toilet seat, disappearing after without a word.

Stiles doesn’t move. He doesn’t have the energy or the will. He’s back to his weak, pathetic, broken self.

Derek comes back in with an armful of clothes. He crouches down so he’s directly in front of Stiles, their eyes met.

"We need to get you dry," he says, voice quiet and gentle.

His eyes stay locked with Stiles', "Stiles, we need to get you out of these clothes. Okay? Just. . . tell me if you want me to stop, and I promise I will stop. All right?"

Stiles doesn’t remember nodding, but he knows he must give Derek some form of permission as a few long moments later, he feels Derek pulling his sodden-wet hoodie over his head. Stiles flinches as the cold fabric sliding against his clammy skin, the first touch of the towel. Derek pauses, waiting a moment, giving Stiles the time to tell him to stop, and when the younger boy says nothing, Derek continues to dab and gently brush his skin dry. His bare skin is replaced with a thick, bag hoodie. Stiles instantly burrows down into the collar, feeling the worn soft fabric against his face and cheeks.

"Okay. We need to change your pants. Do you want me to leave?"

Stiles doesn’t know if he can do this alone. He doesn’t think he can get up, let alone dry and dress himself.

He nods anyway. Derek looks wary, uncertain and like he wants to argue, but he rises to his feet a moment later and leaves. The door closes with a soft click behind him.

It takes Stiles a long time to get up and dry himself. Derek had brought him in another pair of boxers and grey sweatpants, and Stiles just wants to _cry_ and he doesn’t know why. He feels pathetic and weak down to his bones, which is so _frustrating_ because he was doing so well.

Derek comes back in, apparently after sometime, and Stiles only got so far as dressing into the dry boxers. He’s sitting with his back against the bathtub, butt on the floor and bony knees drawn up to his chest again.

Derek crouches in front of him, his hand resting on Stiles’ shaking one.

Stiles looks up, and the tears in his eyes burn.

"Should we tell someone?" He rasps.

The frown on Derek’s face causes lines so deep. "Tell someone what?"

"What I did."

The frown, if possible, deepens. "What did you do, Stiles?"

"I killed him, Derek," Stiles whispers, voice so quiet and hoarse it’s practically a croak.

Derek’s face falls. His green eyes are huge, expression sad. "It was self-defence, Stiles. He was. . . he hurt you, and he was going to hurt you again."

"I killed him."

"He would have killed _you_. You didn’t. . . you didn’t do anything wrong."

"I’m going to be arrested."

"No," Derek shakes his head vigorously. "You’re not, because you are not to blame. You’re the victim, Stiles."

"He’s still dead."

"He is," Derek nods, "and you may never be the same because of it, but you are _not_ to blame. If we tell the police, they will tell you the same thing."

"I can’t prove it," Stiles whispers. "I can’t prove it was self-defence."

Derek sighs, and Stiles knows he’s waring him down.

He doesn’t know why he’s always thinking about Donovan now. Maybe it’s because he’s spoken to Theo again. Maybe it’s because it’s December now, and that means it’s almost been a year since he gave Stiles the worst night of his life.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks in realisation. _It’s almost been a_ year.

Stiles can’t get it out of his head. He hasn’t thought about it this much before; he must have been so distracted with his mother dying in front of his very eyes that he didn’t seem to process the fact that he _murdered someone,_ and then _buried them in the fucking preserve by their house._

If someone told Stiles in that moment in time, that he had to go out and find the body he buried, he wouldn’t know where to look. He has no memory of it, no recall. All he can remember is the dirt under his fingers and the panic in his lungs.

Donovan will be well into decomposition by now, he tells himself. He hadn’t heard himself that Donovan had been declared dead, but evidently the search didn’t last long enough for them to think otherwise.

Maybe Donovan disappeared all the time before? Maybe him vanishing is normal to his family?

 _Was he close to them?_ Stiles wonders. If Stiles had went missing, as much as his mother hated him, he’s almost certain she would have gone to the police and looked for him for longer than a few months.

"I _buried him_ , Derek," he chokes. "I. . . I—"

Derek is hugging him before the first sob is physically punched out.

"Donovan was an asshole, and while that’s not a reason to be murdered, him attacking you in the woods is," Derek murmurs gently into his ear. "Stiles, he. . . he raped you, okay? He assaulted you, he tormented you, he was blackmailing you with non-consensual photos. He was going to hurt you that night in the woods. You killed him with his own knife, you killed him in self-defence, and I have read enough law books and watched enough documentaries to know if you stand up in front of any court and tell them everything, they won’t think twice about letting you go."

Stiles sobs harder, because he so badly wants to believe Derek, but he can’t force himself to.

Self-defence or not, Donovan is still dead and the blood will forever stain Stiles’ hands.

A while later, Derek helps him get on his sweatpants before he scoops Stiles into his arms. Stiles is so exhausted he goes boneless as he’s cradled to Derek’s chest, and allows the older teen to carry him into Derek’s bedroom. At first, Stiles is confused, close to making a sound of protest when Derek puts him down on his bed, wordlessly leaving him to go to his TV.

"Derek, what—"

"We’re going to watch a movie."

Stiles sighs, "Derek—"

"I know you’re not going to want to go back to sleep," Derek interrupts softly, "and that’s fine, but you are not laying in your room for the next five hours until morning consumed in your own thoughts. It’s not healthy."

"And watching movies all night is?"

Derek grins at him over his shoulder, "It’s a better alternative."

"What are we watching?"

"The best movie of all time: _The Breakfast Club_."

"I want to make fun of you for that, but I have to agree."

"Good. I don’t think either of us have the energy to argue about it."

They’re fifteen minutes in when Cora joins them.

Stiles eyes slip closed somewhere before the end of the movie.

 

It’s the next week that Stiles suddenly feels like the world has stopped spinning.

He overhears Derek talking to Robert in the kitchen on Sunday morning, the topic of college clear in their conversation.

Stiles feels sick with nausea and nerves when Derek talks to his father about going to New York for college.

Derek graduates in June, Stiles suddenly realises. Derek is going to _leave him_ in just over six months.

Stiles doesn’t think he could do it without Derek. The older boy has been the most stable rock Stiles has ever leaned on. He won’t survive without Derek, he won't cope.

Why does everyone he loves have to leave him?

He vomits that night with the very thought on his mind.

 

Stiles spends Christmas at the McCall house. It’s the worst Christmas yet, but also, somehow one of the best. Derek comes over in the evening with Cora and Lydia, and with Melissa on call, the group of teenagers spend the entire evening and night watching movies.

Somehow, Stiles manages to convince himself that he’s okay.

 

He still has nightmares. He still wakes up screaming, crying in hysterics. He dreams different things now; sometimes he dreams his father, sometimes he dreams his mother, sometimes Donovan, sometimes all three. They’re twisted and dark, flashing behind his closed eyelids every time he shuts them.

Derek is always there, bursting through his bedroom door before he’s even caught a breath. Stiles sometimes wonders if Derek stays up just for this purpose, but shoves the thought away when the guilt settles in his stomach. Derek never leaves him, too. He sits there, hands holding Stiles, helping him calm down and not losing his temper over every agonising breath Stiles’ body refuses to let in. He stays until Stiles has calmed down enough that he’s just shaking from the soft sobs. Then, like clockwork, the older boy will climb off the bed, grab the blankets and sheets that are normally kicked onto the floor, and climbs in the bed with Stiles. He smothers them with duvets and blankets, pulling Stiles into his side and tells him to go back to sleep.

Sometimes, he does.

 

The school year doesn’t get any better, but somehow, it doesn’t get worse.

Stiles still smokes his lungs black, but he hasn’t swallowed a single pill since he flushed them down the Hale toilet.

He still has nightmares, still screams himself away in a tangle of panic and fright, but if Derek’s there, he normally manages to fall back to sleep.

He doesn’t eat, he still purges, and he tries to convince himself it’s nerves and anxiety.

It’s not, but the lie helps a little.

 

It’s a Wednesday before summer holidays break out, that Robert drops the bombshell.

They’re all sitting around the dining table, a thing they rarely do anymore. Derek had managed to drag Stiles down with him, practically shoving the smaller child into the chair. Stiles doesn’t eat, but he does enough playing with his food that he doesn’t think anybody cares. He could be doing worse things than that, right?

The only sound is the slurping of their spaghetti when Robert blurts out, "I have a business trip I need to attend in Amsterdam. I’m going to be away for four weeks, so you all need to go stay with Talia."

Stiles is grateful that Robert doesn’t say 'stay with your mother', otherwise he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to resist the bitter snap that _his_ mother is six foot under the ground so he can’t stay with her.

He looks up from his plate, eyeing Cora and Derek, who both look struck at their father.

"When is this trip?" Cora asks.

"I leave on Monday."

Theres a long, silent pause, and then,

" _Fuck_ sake," Derek curses angrily, dropping his fork onto his bowl with a loud clatter.

Robert’s face is one of fury.

"You didn’t leave us much notice, did you?" Derek goes on. "Jesus, mom might have plans!"

"Well, she’ll have to cancel them for her children."

"Can’t we stay here?" Cora asks.

"No. You’re going to your mothers, and I’ll phone her if you don’t," Robert snaps, voice cold and hard.

A shiver runs down Stiles’ spine. He’s barely seen the man since his mother died, and they haven’t spoken a word. It’s been over a year since she was diagnosed, and eight months since she passed away.

"Dad—"

"You’re going, and that’s final," Robert practically snarls, rising from his chair. "You’re going to New York, and you’re taking Stiles with you."

 

_— tbc._


	16. sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for this chapter to be so long (13.3k words wowie), but I really wanted to show the progression in this chapter and form the relationships between Stiles and the Hales. I'm also sorry this took so long, but life got in the way, I hate final chapters and this is super long so :)
> 
> Anyway, here it is - the FINAL CHAPTER!
> 
> I don't want to keep you waiting (if anyone even reads these) but I can want to say a _huge_ thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this to the end. You are all beautiful angels who are so so important and valuable. I wish you all the best, stay safe and happy and positive!
> 
> enjoy this last chapter :)

New York hasn't changed a bit, but Stiles sees it differently.

They arrive Monday morning, having flown during the night as Robert was leaving Monday morning, California time. Stiles had managed to sleep during the flight, having spent the whole weekend worrying himself sick at the concept of spending four weeks in New York after it being over a year since he's seen Talia and Laura, he'd managed to exhaust himself into sleep. Derek woke him up just before they landed, and Stiles was so startled that he'd actually slept the whole flight, undisturbed by nightmares or anxiety keeping him awake, that he passed by the entire landing and suddenly they were getting off.

Going for four weeks meant Stiles had to pack more than he’s ever packed before. He knew Talia had a washing machine, so he could wash the clothes he wore, but he still needed to take enough to last.

Talia and Laura meet them outside the airport again, and Stiles wants to sink to the floor and cry with relief when he see’s the familiar wave of dark hair and green eyes amongst the busy sidewalk. Laura hugs him first, even before she hugs Derek or Cora. She pulls him in for a crushing squeeze that creaks his bones and buzzes his blood. She ruffles his hair, eyes wide with adoration, almost shiny with tears.

"Hey, kiddo," she whispers, smiling. "Good to see you."

"Good to see you too, Laura," he croaks in reply.

He catches Derek’s pleased expression before Laura is moving and Talia is swooping in just as quick. He feels her warm hands rub up and down his back, her other wrapped around him and holding him close. It’s a hug that he didn’t know he needed until he gets it.

For a split moment, Stiles wants to mistake Talia for his mother. He wants to pretend the arms around him are the woman’s who left him, who fucked him up and threw him away. He wants to pretend it’s not real, he _wishes_ he could pretend everything that has happened isn’t real and that he dreamt it all, that his mother and father are alive, that he never met Theo or Donovan. But Stiles has lost the will to fool himself anymore. His pain is buried too deep into his bones to ignore and feign a different story.

"Come on," Talia says, pulling back and flashing them all smiles. Stiles can see tears in her eyes, and he has to tell himself they’re happy tears, surely. "Lets get back so you guys can drop your stuff off at the house. We haven’t got anything planned to do for you all, as this was so last minute, but I’ve made up your rooms."

"Thanks, mom," Derek replies, scooping up his bags.

Stiles looks out the window throughout the entire drive to Talia’s. The Hale’s talk, but Stiles stays silent. He watches the world fly by, the different city that is so different from little Beacon Hills. He’s still trying to wrap his head around that he’s going to be here for the entire summer, away from Lydia and Scott, away from the Hale house and the woods.

It’s warm out, reaching the peak of summer so Stiles only needs to wear his jeans and a sweatshirt to be warm, but he still sticks out like a sore thumb amongst everyone is shorts and vests.

When they get to the house, Stiles, Derek and Cora take their bags upstairs to the same rooms they had before. This time, Stiles doesn’t panic over the sight of a simple bedroom, but instead walks numbly in and drops his bags. He doesn’t think he has the energy to have a panic attack anyway. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, lighting up the screen.

He has nine missed messages.

Three from Scott.

Five from Lydia.

One from Theo.

He looks at Scott’s first, but they’re basically just asking if he’s okay, that Melissa is worrying about him, and that he got promoted at the Vet Clinic. Stiles can’t help but smile, and texts Scott back a congratulations text.

From Lydia, he gets:

_Hey, just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I’m going to Chicago this summer again with my mom so I won’t be around. If you need anything, text or call me x_

_Stiles, are you alright? I tried calling but you’re not answering your phone still._

_I can’t believe you made me find out from Derek that you’re okay._

_Have fun in New York! Bring me back something pretty!_

_Text me when you’ve landed. I want to know you’re okay x_

Stiles smiles.

 _I’m fine,_ he texts. _Landed an hour ago. Have fun in Chicago, I’ll get Laura to help me pick out something pretty for you._

He sends it, and then as an after-thought, adds, _Thank you, Lydia x_

He doesn’t read Theo’s text. He closes his phone and throws it down on the bed. If he wants to be good in New York, he needs to forget about Theo.

The first day there is spent in the garden, sitting on deck chairs. Derek and Laura drink beers from the bottles and Talia and Cora drink fruit ciders. Stiles drinks lemonade and orange juice, and spends most of the time rolling the straw between his fingers and looking out over the small but pretty garden, filled with blooming flowers and bursts of colour. There’s a tree in the corner, low but huge, with apples dangling down from the thick branches. Stiles watches the leafs flutter in the breaths of wind, but the sun above pounds down and brings a warmth to his skin that he hasn't felt in a long time.

The sound of his name draws him out of his head. He looks to the side from where he's curled up in the garden chair, legs folded and knees against his chest, to see all of the Hale's looking at him.

"Hmm?" He hums in question.

"What do you want to do this summer?" Laura asks. It's then that Stiles notices that Talia's chair is empty.

Stiles shrugs. "Anything."

"What would you do if you were home?"

 _Swallow pills. Smoke cigarettes. Cry_.

Stiles shrugs again. "Draw, I guess. Or read."

"You like to read?"

"He's a total bookworm," Cora replies for him, her tone fond. "He spends all of his time in moms library."

Laura's thick, dark eyebrows rise on her forehead. "No way! Mom will be pleased. Robert doesn't know how to read unless it's a pay check."

Stiles snorts. "Your mom has a nice book collection."

"I'm pretty sure you're the only person who reads them now," Laura smiles. "Hey, if you want we can go to the bookstores around here. There's tons."

Stiles smiles, small and shy. "I'd like that. If you don't mind."

"Of course not. If I have to take Derek to a Knicks game, I can take you to some bookstores," Laura grins.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Don't lie. _You_ want to go to the game too."

 

A week later, they all go to the basketball game. Laura gets them good seats, and Cora tags along too. They sit in the brightly coloured bleachers benches with big boxes of popcorn and huge drinks. Stiles slurps soda his through a straw as they watch. He doesn’t really understand what is going on, but he manages to join in with the crowd when they cheer and cry. He watches Derek and Laura mostly, copying their reactions.

Stiles has fun. He laughs, he cheers, he sips his soda and nibbles on some popcorn, no feelings of guilt or anxiety in sight, as if the bright strobe lights of the arena has cast away the shadows.

Squished between Laura and Derek, the oldest of the Hale siblings leans into him and says, "Have you ever been to a game before?"

Stiles shakes his head.

"Didn’t you go to any basketball games at school? Derek’s in the team, I would have thought he’d have dragged you along to one," Laura replies.

"Never. I’ve been to a few lacrosse games, but that was in freshman year when Scott played," Stiles explains.

"Scott? You’re friend?" Stiles nods, and Laura smiles. "Why didn’t you play lacrosse too?"

"I tried out with him but I didn’t get on the team," Stiles shrugs. "I didn’t want to play anyway. I only did it because Scott wanted me to."

"That’s sweet," Laura bumps his shoulder, grinning. "Do you enjoy any other sport?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Not really. Sports. . . are not really my thing."

"That’s cool," Laura nods. "It’s not mine either. I like watching, but I can’t play. Derek and Cora are the athletic ones."

"What do you do then?"

"Everything _but_ sports!" Laura laughs. "I like art, fashion, music. All the basic, 'boring' stuff."

"You like art?"

Laura nods. "Of course. That’s why I was so fascinated when I saw you drawing last time you were here. Theres tons of art places in New York, if you wanted, we could go to some of the them as well as book stores."

Stiles smiles widely. "I’d really like that, Laura. T-thank you."

"You don’t need to thank me, squirt," she grins, bumping his shoulder again. "It’s my job to keep you goons amused while you’re here."

Stiles chuckles softly and sips his soda through the straw. A thought flitters through his mind, and he turns to Laura to ask, "Do you have a job?"

Laura nods. "During the summer I work at cafe in Hell’s Kitchen."

"Hell’s Kitchen?" Stiles’ eyes widen. "Are you going to have to work often?"

"A couple of shifts a week," Laura replies. "Need to save up some money before I go back to college."

"You’re studying criminology and science, right?"

Laura nods. "It’s really good too. Hard, but good. I just can’t work while I’m studying, too much study work. You’re smart though, you’ll be fine in college."

Stiles feels his cheeks heat up vigorously. "I. . . uh— I don’t think I’ll be going to college."

Laura frowns. They’re no longer paying attention to the game. "What do you mean? You’re smart as hell, kid. You’ll have no struggle."

No _intellectual_ struggle, Stiles wants to stress. While he hates it at the Hale mansion in Beacon Hills, he doesn’t think he could cope on his own. He wouldn’t be able to start somewhere new alone. The anxiety would eat him whole.

"I haven’t even thought about it," Stiles replies honestly. "I still have a year left."

"Fair enough," Laura nods. "Do you know where Derek’s going?"

Stiles shakes his head and sips his drink silently. He’s heard Derek speaking to Robert many times about where Derek is going to be going after the summer and what he is going to be doing. Stiles hasn’t asked Derek directly, but he has an awful feeling Derek is going to be moving out. He’s frequently heard about NYU, and he knows it has a great basketball scholarship for Derek if he gets in.

Stiles isn’t sure he’s ready to be home alone with Cora and Robert all the time.

They go to dinner afterwards where Talia joins them. College comes up again, and Derek confirms Stiles assumptions that he is going to be going to NYC if he gets in, to which he will find out over the next few weeks.

Stiles feels sick to his stomach and barely touches his food, putting everyone in a strained mood when they see he hasn’t finished his dinner and looks in no sense to.

He’s not sure he will cope without Derek. Derek’s been his rock since all the stuff about Theo and Donovan came out. He’s supported Stiles more than anyone else has, and Stiles doesn’t think he can stand on his own two feet when Derek leaves.

He barely sleeps that night. His first week in New York is ruined by a simple conversation about college that has thrown him off his kilter completely. He scratches his arms in desperation to find relief, the small amount of pinching pain helping him calm his breathing and stop his heart from threatening to break out of his chest.

Ever since his parents split, all Stiles has felt is abandonment. His father left, then his mother, then Theo, then his mother again. He’s been moved around like a bag, dumped from place to place. He’s been left and abandoned and moved carelessly. Stiles isn’t ready for Derek to leave him too.

 

Laura takes him to a bookstore the next day. They grab breakfast from a small cafe and carry around coffee in cardboard cups as they walk down the street. Laura is talking about something that is going straight over Stiles’ head, who is focusing more on the people around him and the chaos of New York streets. It’s almost calming, the way everyone around him is running and scrambling about their days while him and Laura walk, slow and relaxed, with no timetable or schedule to follow.

It takes him a moment to break out of his head and realise Laura has stopped. He spins around, finding her standing a few steps behind him.

She looks up at a sign and says, "This is the best bookshop I know. Mom found it when we moved here, it has the best, cheapest hardbacks ever."

Stiles smiles, "Nice."

"Come on," Laura grins, reaching over and grabbing his hand. "We’ve got hours to explore this place."

Laura drags him inside, and he stares up in complete awe at the sight around him. It’s like an industrial loft, book shelves from floor to ceiling.

"Woah," Stiles breathes.

Laura grins wider beside him. "Come on, squirt. Lets find you some books."

He falters, grabbing Laura’s hand before she can dash off. She turns to him, face soft.

"What’s wrong?" She asks.

Stiles opens his mouth, cheeks heating. "I. . . I don’t have any money, Laura."

"Don’t worry," Laura shakes her head, flashing him a smile. "We can pay—"

Stiles shakes his head vigorously. "I don’t want you to pay. I have enough for one, so you need to help me choose."

"Stiles, you can’t survive all summer with no money. Let me pay."

"No, I can’t let you do that," Stiles murmurs. "I’ll get my own job."

Laura’s eyes widen. "Stiles, you don’t have to do that."

"I do," Stiles replies, this time with more confidence. "Like you said, I can’t go all summer with no money."

Laura seems hesitant, but slowly, a smile on her face grows.

"Okay, kiddo," she says, grabbing his hand. "We’ll get you a job. But first, let’s buy you a book!"

Stiles grins, her own contagious. He nods and allows Laura to drag him further into the store.

He feels hypnotised as he runs his fingers over fresh spines of books, hardback and paperback. Dozens after dozens of books lined up, staked on shelves and displays just in arms reach. Stiles pulls a book out when he recognises the spine: a pocket size paperback version of _The Great Gatsby_.

Stiles is still looking at it when Laura drapes her chin over his shoulder.

"You liked that book?" She asks.

Stiles nods.

"That’s one of mom’s favourites," she goes on. "She has about three copies in her library."

"I know. I read one."

"In my opinion, the film is better," Laura snarks, and she grins when Stiles gasps like he’s personally offended.

"You can’t say that!" Stiles defends. "The books are always better."

Laura holds a finger up, " _That_ is not always true, you little bias bookworm."

Stiles smiles, tossing the book back and forth in his hand. "I’m going to get this one. My version is a big hardback, I need a small one to carry around."

Laura nods. "Alrighty then."

Later, Stiles sits at the breakfast bar beside Derek and watches Talia move around the kitchen making cookies. He sits with his chin resting in his hands as Talia whisks a bowl of cookie mix. When she turns her back, Stiles feels a spurge of mischief run through him, a childish feeling that he doesn’t push away. The scene is so domestic, so familiar that he doesn’t want to shove away any good feelings. So, when Talia has her back turned, he leans up and scoops a dob of cookie dough of his fingers and puts it in his mouth. He looks to Derek, who’s grinning at him with an expression Stiles can’t quite define. Derek does the same, and they scoop out more and more, tiny bit by tiny bit on the tips of their fingers before Talia turns around, finding Derek’s finger reaching into the bowl and Stiles’ in his mouth.

She gasps. "Boys!"

Derek is frozen with his hand in the bowl, smile so wide his face could split.

Stiles throws his head back and laughs, laughs so hard he can feel his ribs shaking in his chest.

 

Getting a job is harder than Stiles expected.

He looks the next day, but as he’s only going to be around for four weeks, it’s hard to convince employers to take him.

After a whole day of searching, he tries on more before he tells himself he’ll need to call Laura and have her come pick him up. He tries a small card shop on a street corner, and the lady behind the counter takes one look over him and nods, "Sure, kid. Come on back, I’ll get some papers and we can decide on some hours."

Stiles’ eyes widen with shock. "R-really?"

The lady looks at him with a blank expression, half turned, "Yes, really. Do you want the job or not?"

"Y-yes," Stiles stammers, nodding vigorously. "Yes. I want a job."

"Good," she nods. "Then come on."

He follows her through a door behind the counter, which leads to a small room no larger than a bathroom, with a wooden desk on one side and a old, sagging couch on the other. And on the couch, is a pale short boy who can’t be any older than Stiles.

"Liam," the woman says, "Go and keep an eye on the shop."

"Who’s this?" The boy asks as he gets up. Despite his shortness, he’s surprisingly built.

The woman seems to come to the sudden realisation that she hasn’t even asked for Stiles’ name, and she turns to him with an expecting expression.

"Stiles," he says. "My name is Stiles."

The boys thick eyebrows pinch. "Stiles?"

"Liam," the woman scolds, pointing towards the door. "Shop. Now!"

Liam rolls his eyes and squeezes past Stiles out the door, closing it behind him forcefully.

Stiles turns to the woman, who has sat down on one side of the paper-covered desk.

"Take a seat, Stiles," she says, gesturing to the other chair. Stiles sits as she stifles through some papers. "All right. My name is Jenna. I need some details first."

Stiles nods.

"Do you have any ID?"

Stiles gives her his provisional driving license that his father got him for his 14th birthday.

"It says here you live in Beacon Hills," Jenna says. "That’s alright, you said you’re here for the summer."

Stiles nods. "I just need some work until then."

Jenna looks at him with an expression like she’s reading him, searching his face for signs and messages.

"Okay," she nods. "We just need someone to do a few shifts a week, tills and restocking. We’re a pretty quiet store, so when you’re comfortable you can work alone. You just met my son, Liam. Don’t be fooled by the muscles and grumpy expressions, he’s a good kid. You probably won’t be working with him, but he hangs out here sometimes when his friends are busy."

Stiles nods, head bobbing. "That’s fine."

Jenna watches him for another moment, and Stiles barely manages to resist shrinking under the gaze.

"Who are you staying with here in New York, Stiles?"

The question catches Stiles short. What are the Hale’s to him? Is Derek still his step-brother now his mother is gone? What is Talia to him? Laura?

"Uh. . . m-my family. My brother and sister brought me over to see their mother."

Jenna’s eyebrows twitch as if she wants to rise them. Stiles knows she probably wants to ask what he means by 'their mother', but she apparently contains herself.

"All right," she concludes, scribbling something down on a bit of paper. "This probably doesn’t sound very official, but as you’re only here for a short amount of time I don’t think it needs to be. You’ll be paid in cash, if that’s okay. Doing it through banks will take too long and you’ll still be waiting for your pay when you leave for California again."

Stiles nods again, slightly star-struck that this is happening and that it’s happening so quickly.

Can he even do this? Can he serve customers, strangers? Can he work a unknown shop by himself? He has days when he feels as fragile as a baby bird with a broken wing, how is he meant to work in a public shop?

"As you could probably see from when you walked in," Jenna goes on, walking over Stiles’ thoughts, "we sell cards and gifting. So, as you can imagine, we’re not overly busy. We get enough, and I enjoy what we sell so I refuse to see my shop go under. My husband is a doctor here, so this is more of a hobby I have."

Stiles forces himself to smile out of politeness.

"All right," she claps her hands abruptly. "Can you come back tomorrow? 10 till two sounds like a nice starting shift. We can work out some more hours from then."

Stiles nods. "That’s great, thank you."

"I’ll just take your phone number, in case anything changes," Jenna says.

Stiles gives her his mobile number and they stand up, shake hands.

Jenna jumps. "You’re hands are so cold."

Stiles feels his cheeks heat up. "Oh— uh, yeah. They’re always cold."

Jenna smiles softly. "That’s because you’re so thin."

His cheeks glow violently red. It sounds so strange coming from a stranger.

"Come on, I’ll walk you out," she says. "I need to see if Liam is actually there."

Stiles chuckles and follows her back out onto the shop floor. It’s small and cosy, merely a whole-in-the-wall card shop on a street corner in New York city.

Liam is behind the counter, twirling a pencil between his fingers. He looks at them when they come out, and flashes Stiles a small, tense smile.

"Liam, this is Stiles. He’s going to be working with us now," Jenna says, despite already introducing him earlier.

Liam nods. "Cool. Saves me having to do it."

Stiles chuckles as Jenna rolls her eyes. "You can see how supportive he is of my shop."

"Hey, I am supportive of you and your shop!" Liam defends. "I just wish you’d sell different stuff."

"Like lacrosse sticks and gym clothes?"

Liam’s expression falls flat, and Jenna barks a laugh. "Get out of here, kid."

Her son scurries out of the store with a grin.

"He’s a good kid," Jenna says, looking at the closing door.

Stiles feels something sharp and hot pang in his chest. He doesn’t know if it’s a good or a bad feeling. He doesn’t know if his mother has ever said that about him to someone else, but a dark feeling in his stomach doubts it. He wonders what it is like to have a mother who does that, who gazes at your retreating back and calls you good, kind things.

Stiles walks back to Talia’s feeling heavy and light. He has a job, but seeing Jenna and Liam has reminded him how alone he truly is.

He tells the Hale’s that night, and all three are thrilled for him. Almost exaggeratedly so, but it’s nice. Laura squeals and hugs him so hard he feels his spine poking the flesh of his neck. Talia looks like she’s about to cry and hugs him (much slower and softer than Laura). Derek draws him into a bear hug and Cora says that this means he can buy her lunch.

Talia cooks a celebratory chocolate torte for Stiles, and the teens manages a tiny slice from pressure. He can’t turn it down, not when Talia spent the entire afternoon making it in time for dinners dessert. He even manages _not_ to feel overwhelmed with guilt afterwards. If anything, it feels good.

 

The next morning, Laura gives him a lift into the city for 10 o’clock. Jenna smiles at him kindly when he walks in and waves him to come behind the counter. She spends an hour walking him around the store, showing him where everything goes, how the till works, where the restocks for products and receipt paper is. She gives him a key to the back room, and says that it’s meant to be locked at all times (but it’s not), so she needs to give him a key incase. 

"If you feel more comfortable with it locked, then that’s fine," Jenna says. "I just keep it unlocked so Liam can pop in and out."

Stiles nods. "Why does he hang out here?"

"We live a little out of the city," Jenna replies. "He comes to sit here in-between lacrosse practice and meeting friends instead of going all the way home."

"Oh, okay," Stiles says lamely. He doesn’t have anything against Liam, but the teenager intimidates him. He’s strong, and confident, and evidently cool - everything Stiles is _not_.

Stiles doesn’t do a lot on his first day. He watches Jenna do everything; serve, restock, help customers. He works the till a few times before two o’clock comes around and she tells him he can go. He punches out with the small cards in the backroom, grabs and rucksack and walks out.

When he steps out onto the New York sidewalk, he feels different. He feels new and reformed. He feels _good_.

He meets Derek and Laura and they go to grab a coffee and a bite at a small cafe. Stiles nibbles on a sandwich and talks a mile a minute about the store, what he did, what Jenna is like. He feels, for the first time in three years, himself again.

 

Stiles is standing behind the counter, working an afternoon shift in the card shop. It’s quiet, only a Tuesday, so he’s had a scraping of customers and none in the last hour. He stands behind the till, leaning against the counter and roughly sketching on the back of a scrap receipt. The store door opens abruptly, swinging back and narrowly missing hitting a card stand in it’s haste. Liam comes in, cheeks flushed with extortion. He has a rucksack hanging on one shoulder, a skateboard tucked under the other and large black headphones on.

When he see’s Stiles, he slides the headphones to sit around his neck. He nods in greeting and approaches the counter.

"We not busy?" He asks.

Stiles shakes his head. "Really quiet."

"That why you’re doodling?" He says, his lips spreading to a smug smirk.

Stiles’ cheeks flush and his eyes widen. He looks down at the obvious drawing on the receipt. He swipes it and crumples it in his hand. "S-sorry. I, uh—"

"It’s fine," Liam laughs with a shrug. "You’re pretty good."

"Uh. . ." Stiles stammers, "T-thanks. I. . . don’t tell your mom."

"What? Don’t tell my mom you can draw, or don’t tell her you were drawing when you were meant to be working?" Liam smirks. Slowly, it turns into a friendly smile. "Don’t sweat it. I won’t tell, but she won’t be mad either way."

"She won’t?"

"Course not. We have no customers," Liam shrugs, picking up his skateboard that he placed on the floor. "She’d rather you do this than close the shop to have a cigarette break."

"Do you do that?" Stiles asks hesitantly. He hasn’t even thought about a break, let alone closing the shop to smoke.

"No. I don’t smoke," Liam replies, and Stiles has to remind himself that Liam is a sport guy. Of course he doesn’t smoke: it’s the most unhealthy thing for an athlete to do. "But I do close the shop to take breaks or leave early for lacrosse practice, which she hates."

Stiles chuckles and Liam grins.

He goes out back for a while, and Stiles tidies the cards and rearranges the counter items out of boredom. Later, when the shop is empty of customers, Stiles opens the door to the staff room and stands in the doorway, watching Liam as he sits on the couch, weaving his lacrosse net.

When he notices Stiles there, he asks, "You play?"

"No," Stiles shakes his head. "We have a team at my school though."

"Oh yeah, mom said you actually live in California," Liam replies, sounding curious. "What are you doing in New York?"

"Visiting family," Stiles answers, with a light shrug. It’s becoming easier to answer that question.

"Nice. My step-dads from California but we moved here when he got promoted," Liam explains. His stick still sits in his lap, but he’s not weaving the net anymore.

Stiles nods. "My mother was Polish, but I’ve always lived in California."

"Was?" Liam quotes, and Stiles’ stomach twists. _Oh no._ "What happened to her?"

Stiles swallows around a lump in his throat, mouth suddenly bone dry. "She died," he says quietly, merely a croak. "She died last year."

Liam’s eyes widen and his skin goes white. "Shit. Shit, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t— I shouldn’t have asked."

"It’s fine," Stiles shrugs. "Gotta tell people eventually."

"What about your dad?" Liam asks, and then backtracks, "If you don’t mind me asking."

"Died when I was 14," Stiles explains, and it feels strange talking about it to someone who doesn’t know. The only people out of Beacon Hills he’s ever told this to is Theo, as Talia and Laura already knew from Derek. "He was the sheriff, but he got shot in an attack at the station. I. . . I was there."

Liam’s eyes are so wide they’re comically taking over his face. "Shit. I’m. . . I’m sorry, man. I should stop asking questions."

"It’s fine."

"Seriously, you should tell me to fuck off."

Stiles barks a surprised laugh. "It’s okay, honestly."

And for the first time, Stiles thinks it is.

 

It isn’t all perfect.

Theo still phones him. Donovan is still on his mind. His mothers voice and fathers eyes reign dominant in his head most days. He’s better, but he’s not ready, he’s not done. He feels incomplete in everything he does.

Stiles still feels sick when he eats. He’s still bone thin, still wears jumpers to consume heat and hide the mangled skin on his arms. It’s the blistering heat of summer, and one day, when they’re alone, Laura asks if he’s not hot in his black jeans and thick jumper when she’s sweating in shorts and a t-shirt.

"We could get you some summer clothes," Laura offers. "You must have some living in California, but if you didn’t bring any then I can show you all the best places to buy clothes. _Decent_ clothes for that matter."

Stiles opens and closes his mouth like a fish. "Oh— uh, I. . . t-thanks, Laura, but I don’t need any new clothes."

"Really? Not even some short sleeves?" Laura asks, voice gentle. "I don’t want to pressure you, Stiles. I don’t want to upset you either."

"You’re not upsetting me. I just. . ." he sighs, trailing off. "I don’t wear short sleeves."

Laura looks at him with a knowing expression, and Stiles is starting to wonder if she already knows.

"Can you tell me why?"

_No. Never._

Stiles breathes slowly through his nose.

_It’s only Laura. It’s just Laura._

He hasn’t touched his arms since they got in New York almost two weeks ago. Almost all the scars are faded now, healed over and pearly silver.

He pulls his sleeves up and closes his eyes.

Laura is silent for a long time. For a moment, Stiles fears she’s run off, in disgust or fear he can’t decide, but when he opens his eyes, she’s still there.

"Stiles. . ." she whispers, but says no more. Her eyes don’t leave his arms. They’re wide with a mix of concern, worry and heartbreak.

 _I did that,_ Stiles thinks. _I put that expression on her face._

_All I do is hurt people._

"I’m sorry," he whispers.

Laura’s eyes snap up to his. "What the hell for?"

"Hurting you. Hurting everyone," Stiles croaks. There’s tears already rolling down his cheeks. He feels fragile, broken.

"Oh, Stiles," she whispers, moving up from the decking chairs they’re sitting on in the garden. She leans over, pulling him into her for a tight hug, her arms wrapped around him tightly, engulfing him. "You have no reason to be sorry. Whoever made you feel that you had to do this to yourself should be the ones apologising."

"I don’t want to hurt anyone, Laura," he cries. "I hurt people because I hurt myself."

"It only hurts because we care about you," she replies, rubbing her hands up and down his back. "Recovery is long, Stiles. It’s hard and long, and you’ve only just started. You’ve been through more pain in two years than most adults have in their whole life. You have every right to be broken, to be hurt. What you did to yourself is bad, but I understand it. It’s what you needed at the time, what made you feel better and that’s okay. As long as you’re not doing it now, is all that matters to me."

Stiles sobs hard. Laura’s words sink in like water on soil, sinking in the cracks and between the grains.

"I haven’t done it since I came here," he says. "I promise."

Laura is quiet for a long minute. "Who else knows?"

"Derek’s seen them," Stiles whispers, like he’s confessing a secret. He feels exhausted, leaning all of his weight on Laura as emotional fatigue wipes his energy clean.

"Okay," Laura replies, and that’s all she says. _Okay._

_Okay._

 

Stiles spends a lot of time with Laura over the summer. He feels like he connects with her in a way that he can’t with Derek or Cora, as if she’s felt some of the pain he feels. He guesses she does; when she confesses to him that she felt a sense of abandonment when their parents divorced and Robert practically told Laura she wasn’t welcome to stay with him.

They have a lot of heart-to-hearts, most of which are spent on the back porch, late in the evenings with cigarettes between their fingers and fresh nicotine in their lungs.

"I started smoking when I was thirteen," Stiles confesses one afternoon. Derek, Cora and Talia are all out, Laura and Stiles having both got home from work half an hour ago to an empty house. Laura had grabbed them drinks and sat on the back porch step. "I think that’s when it all started. This. . . emptiness. I didn’t even have a reason then. Jackson was an asshole at school, but that wasn’t what got me down. How could I have felt that when I had nothing to be sad over?"

"People can be sad for no reason, Stiles," Laura says softly. "It probably would have gone away too, had nothing else happened."

"Just my luck then," Stiles replies bitterly. He takes a long, burning drag of his cigarette. "I don’t even know when the eating started, either."

"Probably when you felt this emptiness," Laura assures. "It’s surprising what can make you feel so incredibly low. It’s not like you’ve had it easy since. If you ask me, I’d be worried if you _weren’t_ a bit fucked up."

"Is that what I am?" Stiles asks, quiet and shy. "Fucked up?"

Laura grins and bumps his shoulder. "Only a bit."

Two cigarettes later, Laura jumps to her feet.

"Come on," she says.

Stiles frowns. "Huh?"

"Come on," she repeats, holding a hand down for him. "Let’s go and do something."

"Like what?" He asks cautiously, taking her hand.

She pulls him to his feet like he weighs nothing. "You said you wanted to go to some art museums. There’s the Metropolitan that we can get the bus to."

Stiles nods. "Okay. Uh, sure. Yes, yes lets go."

They grab their bags and before Stiles knows it, he’s walking into the famous Metropolitan Museum of Art.

It doesn’t feel real. Stiles has noticed that almost everything he does in New York feels like something out of a dream. He asks Laura if she feels like this, and if it ever goes away, and she just laughs and ruffles his hair.

The Metropolitan is stunning, and strange, and mesmerising. Stiles feels hypnotised, like he had walking around the bookstore. Completely bewildered by the size, the view, the reality of it all.

"Holy shit," Stiles murmurs, looking up around him in awe. The museum isn’t as busy as he expected, so he turns in a circle, staring at the art above his head, the artictecturhe of the building, the design and structure of the ceiling and details.

Laura laughs, watching him. "Pretty amazing when you’re a small-town kid, ay?"

"Do you not think it’s amazing anymore?"

"Of course I do," Laura replies, "It’s just better when it’s all new. After you’ve lived here for a while, New York stops surprising you."

Stiles wonders then, for a short moment, what it would be like if he lived there. If he stayed in New York, living in a busy city, with permanent life and people and crowds, noise and chaos and action.

He brushes the thought away. It will never happen.

 

Stiles purges on the third week.

They have just got back from the diner when he feels he need. He’s been feeling queazy and sick since he ate, and he knows it’s not because of the food. It’s because of the feeling. He can feel the decent of his stomach, the morph in the shape of his abdomen and he can’t stop thinking about it. His mind tells him he can feel the fat sticking to his thighs, the grease from the burger he ate gluing to his back. He feels bloated, like an over-filled balloon.

And he has to do _something_.

He dashes off as soon as he’s in the door. He doesn’t have the lucidity to care that they’ll notice something, that someone will probably follow him and see. He just needs to get it _out_ of him.

He practically stumbles upstairs, falls through the bathroom door and slams it shut behind him. He’s barely made it to the toilet before he’s jamming his fingers down his throat.

It doesn’t work for a long time. Stiles can feel the panic creeping up his back for every minute passes that nothing happens. Maybe he’s lost the ability. Maybe it’s been too long and now it’s gone. He just gags and cries around the fingers in his throat, shaking from the desperation and exertion.

_It’s not working._

_It’s not working_

_It’s not—_

Bile hits the back of his throat and he barely gets his fingers out of his mouth before he’s vomiting the burger, fries and milkshake back up in a disgusting, half-digested mix.

It hits the water in the bowl with a loud splash. He sobs and cries as he chokes, airways cut off by the backlash of his stomach contents.

When he’s done, he reaches with a shaky hand and flushes the chain. He’s sobbing so hard he doesn’t hear the door open. He’s too busy internally screaming at himself for the mistake he has made, the stupidity he has given into.

He’s curled up in a ball against the bathtub, knees to his chest and arms curled around himself. His face is hidden, and he’s shaking so hard he swear he can feel himself physically falling apart.

He doesn’t know why he did it, but he also knows how he could _not_ have done it. He felt so wrong, so disgusting, so _dirty_ for eating and eating so much. He just thought he was better. He’s been good, he’s eaten in slow chunks over the past two weeks and it has felt good, so he thought he could handle a whole meal.

He was so, so _wrong_.

A hand rests on his shoulder and he jumps, but he doesn’t lift his head. He doesn’t think he could look anyone in the eye ever again. He’s so overwhelmed with shame and embarrassment, humiliated beyond defeat.

"Stiles," they say, and instantly, he knows who it is.

"I thought I was getting better, Derek," he sobs into his arms. "I thought I was better, but I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry. I’m so s-sorry."

Arms wrap around him, pulling him into their body. He melts into the warmth, shaking so hard he’s practically vibrating on the bathroom floor.

"It’s okay," Derek says. "It’s okay."

"It’s not okay," Stiles cries, voice growing hoarse. He’s so tired. He’s always _so_ tired. "I will never be okay, Derek."

"You will, Stiles," he replies. "You will. I promise."

*****

Derek hates making promises he can’t keep, and after the night with Stiles in the bathroom, he fears he’s made a promise he can’t stick.

And the frustrating thing, is that Stiles _was_ getting better, and it makes Derek so angry that he just couldn't _stay_ better.

It's unfair, he knows. He knows it's not Stiles' fault this has happened. He knows he can't blame Stiles for his emotional fragility. Stiles has had it incredibly rough, unfairly so for his age. So much has happened in such a small amount of time it's almost unreal. It just makes him so angry, he wants to grab Stiles by the shoulders and shake him, scream at him just to stop backtracking, stop hurting yourself and doing all the things he knows is bad.

But Stiles is not to blame, and Derek has to keep reminding himself of that when he looks at his once healthier complexion turn a waxy, sickly white as he sits on the bathroom floor, falling apart in his arms.

Since New York, Stiles has been a different teenager. He talks more, he eats, he laughs and smiles and breathes like he doesn't have clamps around him lungs. He's got a job, he speaks to strangers everyday and comes home to complain about the annoying customers asking stupid questions. He looks healthier. His skin is less dauntingly white, the bags under his eyes less harsh. He's put on minuscule weight, barely anything, but enough for Derek to notice. He hasn't had a panic attack (that Derek knows of) since he arrived with them at the beginning of the summer.

And it all comes crashing down like a tidal wave.

Derek can't believe it happens. He can't believe he's seeing it again. Stiles looks just like he had when his mother was alive, when Theo was around. Derek has wanted to ask him how hes coping, because it's obvious he isn't fixed from the trauma, but he was just doing so well he couldn't bare the thought of ruining it by asking.

Derek can't sleep that night. His mind is too loud, thoughts too fast and restless. He lays in bed as long as he can, but the silence is tormenting and he can’t stand it anymore. He yanks the covers back and gets up, slipping silently out of his bedroom and downstairs. He makes a pot of coffee and pours himself a generous mug, begging his eyes and body to be as awake as his mind.

 _Is this how Stiles always feels?_ He wonders.

He’s on his second mug when he hears footsteps behind him. He mentally scolds himself - now he’s woken someone up.

He spares a look over his shoulder, and feels a pang of guilt at the sight of his mother slowly walking off the stairs and towards the kitchen, dressed in her slippers and fluffy dressing gown Cora bought her for Christmas. Her long hair is tied back in a simple, quick knot at the base of her head.

"Sorry I woke you," he whispers.

"Don’t be daft, love," she replies, rubbing her hand on his shoulder before rounding the bar and into the kitchen. "I’ve been up for a while, figured I won’t get back to sleep so might as well do something. Evidently, you had the same idea."

Derek nods and looks down at his half-empty mug. "Pot’s fresh if you want coffee."

"Thank you, dear," his mother says, pouring herself a mug and leaning on her elbows on the island top. "What’s keeping you up, sweetie?"

Derek closes his eyes. It’s his mother, he can be honest with her. His worries aren’t unreasonable.

"It’s Stiles," he murmurs, not looking up. "He. . . I thought. . ."

His mother reaches across and holds his hand, her skin soft and warm. "I know," she says. "I know."

He clenches his eyes closed tightly to stop the sudden tears from spilling. "I thought we were helping him, mom."

"We are, Derek. We are helping him."

"Then why is he still hurting himself?" He almost shouts, eyes opening. "Why isn’t he happy?"

Talia takes a deep breath. "He is happy, Derek. He’s as happy as he can be at the moment. Think of everything he has gone through, everything you’ve told me, would you be happy in his shoes?"

Derek doesn’t reply. He can’t. He’s told his mother everything, about all the trouble with Stiles’ father, with Theo and Donovan and Claudia. Talia knows as much as Derek does, yet he still feels foolish being naive when wondering why he’s still damaged.

"He purged, mom," Derek whispers. Stiles back-tracked so fast Derek wouldn’t be surprised if he had whiplash.

"I know," she says, and she flashes him a sad smile. "But, Derek, no one has an easy recovery. There is always complications, always remissions. We can’t expect him just to get better and stay better."

"I know that, I just. . ." hot tears burn his eyes again. "I don’t know how to say it, I just. . . I want him to be better already."

"We all do, Derek. That’s all any of us want, but we can’t force Stiles. There is no cure to mental illness. It’s a slow progress, and Stiles has spent years trying to hide everything that is going on. We should be grateful that he has opened up enough _for_ us to help him," his mother explains. She squeezes his hand, "He will heal at his own pace, but he will need our emotional and physical support to help him. I know it’s frustrating, I know it’s scary and it’s annoying to have to watch him back-track on himself and continue to hurt himself, but that’s just a price we have to pay. It’s temporary. He’s strong, he’ll heal. He won’t be like this forever, I promise."

"But, mom, I’m going to college in September," Derek argues. "I won’t be here to watch and help him get better."

"He’ll have Cora," Talia offers weakly.

"Beacon Hills _ruins_ him, mom," Derek replies. "You haven’t seen it. You don’t _know_ , but the moment we’re back in that town, it’s like a flicked switch."

Talia nods sadly. "I can imagine." 

"I don’t know what to do," Derek admits. His chest feels tight, emotionally exhausted. "He. . . I’m so tired."

"I know, sweetie. We all are, which means so is Stiles. You know he isn’t doing this on purpose," Talia says. "We have to be strong for him. It hurts, I know. It's hard, but it's harder for him. You have to remind yourself of that. Stiles is trying, we know he's trying. He didn't want to do what he did last night. He ate his whole meal because he thought he could, not because he wanted a reason to purge."

"I know, mom." Derek nods, finishing his mug and puts it down gently. He looks into his mother's familiar dark eyes. "I know."

His mother leaves him soon, kissing him on his cheek and telling him not to stay up much later. The clock on the wall tells him it's almost three. In five hours, Stiles and Laura would be getting up for work. Derek wonders if Stiles will go in, or if he'll call Jenna and tell him he's sick.

Stiles had gone to bed in a state, crying so hard he practically drained himself and passed out in Derek's arms on the bathroom floor. When Derek had carried his weightless body to his bedroom, he'd realised that Stiles was still far from better. He weighed no more than a feather, bones digging painfully into Derek's body and arms. His cheekbones are so prominent they're practically sharp, harsh on his face and under Derek's fingertips when he brushes his hand over the younger boys face.

When Derek had placed him on his bed, Stiles' eyes had opened slowly into slits, brown eyes dark in the low light shining in from he hallway. He'd grabbed Derek by the hand shakily, forcing Derek to meet his sad eyes.

"I'm sorry," he'd croaked, voice wrecked. "I'm really sorry, Derek."

"You don't need to be sorry, Stiles," Derek replies, because it's true. Stiles doesn't need to be sorry for what people have made him become. "No one is angry."

He had blinked slowly, lethargically, like he was on the brink of falling asleep. "Tell Talia I'm sorry, and Cora and Laura. I don't want to make you mad."

Derek had squeezed his hand, blinking and forcing away the tears in his eyes. He hadn't wanted to cry in front of Stiles. The guilt would have swallowed him whole.

"No one is mad at you, Stiles," he told him, trying to make is tone as convincing as possible. He didn't suspect that Stiles believed him, but he had to say it. "No one will ever be mad at you for this. It is not. Your. Fault."

Stiles had just closed his eyes while Derek saw and watched the glisten in a single tear as it rolled down his pale cheek and disappeared onto the sheets.

Derek doesn't know if Stiles believed him or his words, but a new hope in him, after seeing that Stiles _can_ get better, that he will again. And one day, Stiles will _stay_ better.

Derek doesn’t go to sleep. He stays downstairs all night, and isn’t surprised when Stiles comes down at just gone seven, looking as tired and as worn out as Derek. He doesn’t look like he slept much past the time he passed out, and Derek wouldn’t be surprised to find out Stiles woke up shortly after and has been awake since.

"Morning," Derek murmurs. "Do you want some coffee?"

Stiles stares at him for a moment, not moving away from the bottom of the stairs where he stopped short at the sight of Derek. He’s silent, as if he can’t find his voice.

He nods, so Derek climbs to his feet and rounds the bar. When he turns back around, Stiles hasn’t moved. Derek see’s a slither of the white box and lighter in one hand, half-disguised in his fist.

Derek wants to ask how he’s feeling, but he’s both afraid of the answer and wonders if he should back off, let Stiles come to him. Derek knows that while it’s nice for people to ask if you’re okay, he also knows sometimes it’s better for people just to back off until you’re ready. So, he doesn’t ask. He pours himself and Stiles some coffee, leaving it on the breakfast bar as bait to get Stiles to move closer.

The teen comes slowly, with hesitant steps as if he’s expecting Derek to be mad now.

Stiles’s pale, bony hands curl around his mug after he’s placed his packet of cigarettes and lighter on the counter.

"You’re up early," he croaks, not meeting Derek’s eyes.

The older boy takes a sip of his scorching hot drink, his mouth spasming then the heat sizzles and burn him, delaying him having to answer the question.

"Couldn’t sleep," he replies. "Not the first time."

He knows Stiles is going to blame himself for Derek’s sleepless night, and he feels like he should try and convince him otherwise but he’s just _so tired_.

Stiles just nods. "Thanks for the coffee," he says, lifting the mug as a mock-salute. He scoops his stuff off the counter and goes out the backdoor without another word.

*****

Liam and Jenna know something is wrong with him the moment he walks through the store door. Jenna’s bright eyes fill with worry and Liam’s thick brows furrow in concern.

"Hey, Stiles," Liam greets, tone off and low, almost hesitant.

Stiles nods in greeting and goes to drop his backpack off in the back room.

Jenna follows him in.

"Stiles, love, are you okay?" She asks.

Stiles nods, his back to her as he sets his bag down by the side on the couch.

"All right, hun. I was going to leave you on your own today, but do you want me to stay?"

Stiles turns around and shakes his head. "No. It’s fine, Jenna. I’ll be all right on my own."

"You sure?"

He forces himself to smile. "I’m sure."

"Okay. . . well, you have my number. Liam’s going to be here till ten-thirty. If he gets annoying, just tell him to come back here," she says with a smile.

Stiles nods. "Will do."

The first half an hour after Jenna leaves is easy enough. He serves some elderly customers buying cards and stamps and spends the rest of the time staring into space, mind reeling over what happened in the last 14 hours.

He’s not getting better, he’s beginning to realise. He’s been fooling himself, and fooling everyone else. Maybe its impossible. Maybe he’s not meant to get better. Maybe he’s supposed to stay fucked-up forever.

His vision may have been blurry with tears, but he still remembers every detail in Derek’s expression when he found Stiles on the floor, just after what he had done. It might be his mind conjuring up the visions of disappointment, but he wouldn’t blame Derek if it was real. Stiles _is_ a disappointment, and what he did last night was the worst thing he’s done all summer. He might as well have sliced his wrists on the kitchen floor and announced his suicide attempt. It feels like betrayal. He’s betrayed Derek, and Cora, and Laura and Talia. He’s betrayed his mother, and his father. And worse, he’s betrayed himself.

". . .—ey? Excuse me, young man, are you all right?"

He’s snapped out of his thoughts like he’s been physically yanked from them. He blinks. There’s a customer standing in front of him, her white hair pulled back into a bun.

Momentarily disorientated, Stiles asks, "W-what?"

The lady smiles kindly. "Are you all right? You’re awfully pale."

It takes Stiles longer than it should to reply. He feels high, almost. "I’m f-fine. Sorry. I’m fine. Can I help you with anything?"

"No," the lady replies. "I just wanted to buy this."

Stiles looks down and see’s a card sitting on the counter. He picks it up and scans it, cheeks blushing a hot red.

"I’m really sorry," he apologises. "I space out a lot."

"Don’t worry, dear. It happens to everyone," she smiles again. "You look sick though. Are you sick?"

_Yes. In many different ways._

"I’m fine," Stiles repeats, and it sounds so fake in his ears he wants to cringe. The woman doesn’t look anymore convinced, but doesn’t ask anymore.

She gives him the money and he gives her the change. Before she turns to leave, she reaches over the counter and takes his hand.

Looking directly into his eyes, she says, "Take care of yourself, boy. You’re too thin."

And then, she’s gone.

Her words ring in his ears for ages.

_You’re too thin._

Is that how people see him? Too thin?

Stiles can’t remember why he stopped eating. Was it self-esteem? Was it because he wanted to be thin? Stiles still hates himself now, so starving himself clearly hasn’t given him the confidence boost it gives others.

Stiles doesn’t look at himself in the mirror often. His reflection scares him, so does that mean it scares others? Are people frightened by his bones and his tired eyes? What impression does he give people?

Stiles can feel himself spiralling, spacing out again until he’s barely nothing but a whirling mind and a frame of a comatose skeleton.

He forces himself to snap out of his thoughts. And when he does, he feels a sting of pain in his hands and looks down, finding his fists closed so tight. He releases them and finds small, bloody half-moon crescents sliced into the palms of his hands.

He jumps when he hears a cough, breaking the silence around him.

Liam is standing at the end of the counter, eyes flicking between him and his hands.

Stiles’ cheeks glow a violent, hot red.

"Are you sure you’re all right?" The younger boy asks, and it’s then that Stiles wonders how old Liam really is. His height could be misleading, as his build makes him look 18, but his petite height also makes him look 12.

Stiles nods and blurts, "How old are you?"

Liam’s eyebrows twitch in surprise. "Turned 16 this summer. Why’d you ask?"

"Just wondering," Stiles shrugs. He realises then that he changed the subject, like he's avoiding addressing the drying blood in his palms and under his finger nails.

"How old are you?" Liam asks.

"16 in April," Stiles replies.

Liam hums. "You don't look 16."

"I don't think anyone looks their age," Stiles says. He brushes his hands against his black jeans in the hope to wipe away the small dribbles of blood before he shoves them in his pockets. He can feel Liam's eyes watching him as he does, so he decides he needs to change the subject again. He eyes a skateboard in the corner by the door and says, "You skate?"

Liam's eyes flick to the board behind him before he looks back at Stiles. "Yeah," he nods. "Easiest way around the city when you don't have money for bus. Do you like to skate?"

"I used to," Stiles replies. "I stopped after. . ."

He swallows thickly, "after my dad died."

Liam's face falls. "Oh. Sorry, man. Bet there's plenty of places to skate in California though."

"Yeah. Beacon Hills is pretty quiet," Stiles replies.

"New York must give you a headache then," Liam chuckles. He's leaning against the wall now opposite Stiles, with his arms crossed and muscles bulging out of the tight white short-sleeve he's wearing.

Stiles shrugs. "It's better than being at home, to be honest."

The door opens and a gust of cold air blows in with the customer. Chills ripple across Stiles' skin and he burrows further into his hoodie.

Liam watches his suspiciously. "Are you anorexic?"

Stiles' heart drops to the floor. His eyes go comically wide.

"W-what?" He stammers, breathless like he's been punched.

Liam looks nonchalant for a moment, and then his eyes widen slightly. "Sorry. I didn't— I just blurt things sometimes. I've been— I've been wondering for a while and you're just. . . so skinny and— _fuck_. I'm going to shut up now. I'm sorry."

 _It's not okay_ , Stiles wants to say. _You can't be sorry. You can't say things like that_ , but Stiles realises then that Liam is only saying what he sees.

Stiles shifts uncomfortably. "I'm not anorexic," he says, because he's not.

He's not anorexic.

 

He doesn't want to go home when he finishes at the shop. He walks around, wandering aimlessly up and down the busy streets. He feels invisible, like he's a ghost, a fragment of air moving against the traffic of New Yorkers. The afternoon disappears and suddenly the sun is setting between the buildings, casting a hypnotising orange glow over the city.

Stiles pulls out his phone and sees a message from Derek, telling him to call him when he finishes work and they'll pick him up. He also has a missed call from Laura, so he rings her back and waits for the answer.

She picks up almost immediately. "Stiles, buddy, I just got out of work. I think mom, Derek and Cora are looking for you."

"Sorry," he apologises. "I got out of work at two. I've just been walking about since."

"It's fine, kid. I'll tell Derek you're all right. Where are you now?"

Stiles looks around him. "Outside the Metropolitan."

"Okay. Wait there, I'll be a few minutes," Laura replies. "Don't cut the line."

"Okay," Stiles says, but he doesn't say anything else. He debates running, but Laura doesn't deserve that.

She rounds the corner a moment later. Her brown hair is a mess in its ponytail, stray strands getting in her face and caught in her eyelashes. She brushes them away when she comes to stand in front of him, finally hanging up.

"Had a nice wander?" She asks, and it isn't sarcastic, or menacing, or angry. It's genuine, curious.

Stiles nods.

Laura smiles. "Good. Come on, Talia made her famous lasagna for dinner and you can not stay with us for this long without trying it."

They get the train back. Stiles stands against the wall of the swaying carriage, staring at his feet. He's got his black jeans tucked into his purple socks, and it's then that he wonders if he's been walking around like a idiot all day.

Laura doesn't speak. She watches the world flash by out the window. A few stops from their station, she takes his hand and simply smiles.

 

He doesn't eat much of the lasagna. It's nice, but he feels nauseous the moment he steps into the house.He feels the bile crawling up the back of his throat when he walks into the kitchen and the smell of Talia’s food wafts in his face like an exploding hot airbag. He resists the urge to gag, and instead heads straight to the open backdoor and into the garden, the fresh air healing the nausea.

They don’t force Stiles to eat more when he barely manages half of his dinner. They smile, and Stiles realises it’s because they didn’t think he’d eat at all. He’s surprised in himself too, but he hopes the food in his aching stomach will ease the dizziness and pulsating pain in his head.

He barely says a thing at dinner, but that’s okay because Laura and Cora do all the talking for him. He doesn’t listen to them, feeling like he’s floating outside of his body, the action of the fork going from his plate to his mouth seeming automatic and robotic.

After dinner, they end up staying sitting at the table and talking, Talia and Derek engaging in the conversation. In the end, Stiles feels his chest tighten and clamp, so he excuses himself and goes into the back garden.

He sits on the decking steps down to the grass, elbows on his knees and lights a cigarette. The nicotine soothes the tightness almost immediately and he sighs, dropping his head forward and closing his eyes.

He’s been in New York for three weeks, which means he only has seven days left before they go back to the house. Back to Beacon Hills with Robert, and Theo, and his parents ghosts and Donovan’s wicked smile. He’ll have to see the woods, the streets, the faces.

A shiver at the thought runs a shiver down his spine. He wonders if he could run away. Where would he go? How far would he get? How long till someone noticed? How long would he last? It’s a stupid idea, but as vulnerable as he feels, it feels like a good idea in that moment. Derek will barely be at the house long enough to notice his disappearance before he’d be rushing of to college and leaving Stiles behind.

That is what he is doing, Stiles decides: leaving him behind. It’s selfish, he knows, but he can’t stop the feeling of abandonment threatening to swallow him whole like a vacuum.

He drags his cigarette again and again, lighting another when the first is dead. Nicotine floods his system, flooring his thoughts. He tries to chase away the feeling of betrayal. It’s not Derek’s fault, he needs to go to college, he needs to grow and get out of Beacon Hills too. Maybe Stiles is just jealous he can’t go with him.

The sun has fallen, the sky a black blanket laying above him. He cranes his neck and looks up, exhaling out a mouth of white smoke against the jet black night sky. A chill seeps in the air, a cool summers evening, but he doesn’t have the energy to go inside and get another jumper. Instead, he curls his arms around his ribs and hugs his knees closer to his chest, still looking up even when his neck aches and goes stiff. 

He doesn't know how long he's out there for before the back door opens behind him with a soft whine and footsteps approach him. He doesn't look, suspecting it's Derek.

A blanket is laid around his shoulders, and the touch is different from the older boys.

He finally looks around, and is greeted by Talia's gentle smile, her skin glowing in the dark.

"Hey, sweetie," she says, sitting down beside him on the step. "You going to come in in a bit? Everyone has gone to bed."

Stiles wants to shake his head, wants to tell her he wants to stay out here all night, listen to the sounds of the city busy and smoke his lungs black. Instead, he nods and just says, "Soon."

Talia nods, her arm around his shoulder and hand rubbing the jutting bone with small, circle motions.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asks.

Stiles feels his spine stiffen. "Talk about what?"

"Whatever is on your mind. Whatever you'd like."

Stiles doesn't for a while. He waits in silence, unable to decide if he can say it all out loud. He's never had the chance to before, never had the security he has now to feel like he can say what he needs to say.

Would Talia judge him? What will she do if he crosses the line? Would she hate him for what he thinks about Derek, about the betrayal and the unreasonable anger towards him growing up and leaving him? Would she allow Stiles to wallow in his immature pain, accept his fears. Or would she tell him to grow up and stop limiting Derek's chances?

It's been a while since Stiles has had no control over his words, but the next ones that come out are like an impulse, a sudden, sharp stab of pain he can't help from crying out from.

"I don't want to go back," he blurts, voice thin with fragility.

He closes his eyes, heart racing.

"Back?" Talia echoes. "Do you mean Beacon Hills?"

Stiles nods shakily. "I don't think I can do it, Talia. I can't be alone there, I don't belong there anymore without my mother."

"Has Robert told you that?" Talia asks, voice taking on a cold, warning tone.

"No," Stiles replies. "But I know I'm not welcome. I was only there because of my mother. I can't be there without her."

Talia says nothing, just strokes his hair, and Stiles can't stop the word vomit coming out once it starts.

He tells her that he doesn't want to be there without Derek, that he can't cope without him, that being alone in that house with Robert is going to kill him. He tells her that he can't walk around the town and see Theo, and his mother's friends and his fathers deputies. He tells her that he can't live in the house his mother used to walk through and look in the woods that he—

He manages to cut himself off before he mentions Donovan. Talia won't forgive that. She can't, it's _murder_. She'll send him straight home if she knew she was homing a murderer under her roof.

His heart is pounding so loud he barely hears her speak, "I know about Donovan, Stiles."

His head snaps to the side so fast his neck twinges.

"W-what?" He stammers, his stomach dropping to the floor. "You can't— y-y-ou can't—"

"Derek told me," Talia says softly.

"He. . ." He trails off, and is suddenly overcome with an unmissable rage. He clenches his jaw, "He had no right to tell you that."

"I know," Talia nods. "But I'm glad I know, and I think you need to know I'm not angry, I'm not disgusted. It was self-defence, Stiles."

Stiles shakes his head frantically. "I. . ."

He doesn't know what to say. He's speechless, shocked from forming coherent sentences. He feels numb.

"I can't go back," he whispers, afraid to speak louder. Does this mean Cora and Laura know? "I can't go back after what I did."

Talia nods, and Stiles wants to snap because she _doesn't understand_. She can't possibly understand what he's saying, how he feels.

"You didn't do anything, Stiles," Talia says to him. "You have nothing to be afraid of anymore."

"They could find him," Stiles whispers. "They could find him, and I'll be done for murder. They won't believe it was self-defence."

Talia sighs, borderline defeat. "Stiles, I'm guessing Derek didn't tell you."

"T-tell me what?"

"He told Jordan Parrish, Stiles. He told him about the body, about what happened between you two," Talia replies, and Stiles heart stops.

He couldn't. . .

How could Derek. . .

His thoughts come to a stand still. He feels like the world has frozen, everything has stopped.

"He told on me?" Stiles whispers, voice cracking.

Talia's dark eyes widen. "No. No, Stiles, it's not like that. He told Deputy Parrish because he knew that it was for the best. If he hadn't, Donovan's body would have been found and a murder case would have been filed, or they would have conducted a missing persons investigation. It was solved, Stiles. Shelved and finished."

"Why. . . w-why wasn't I in trouble?" Stiles stammers. "Why wasn't I arrested?"

Talia smiles sadly. "It was self-defence, Stiles. Yes, there probably should have been a court case to assure that it was, but Derek said Jordan got it all sorted and swept under the rug. It's not as bad as it sounds. Apparently, Donovan was a frequent visitor at the station and he was in trouble with the law a lot. He was not a popular face around there, and as sad as it is, his case wasn't followed up when they discovered his body."

Stiles' mouth is open loosely. He can't believe what he is hearing.

"I. . . I don't understand," he whispers. "How. . . h-how is this happening? How did that happen?"

"You're not in trouble, Stiles," she tells him, her fingers carding through the short hairs on his nape. "You never were, and you never will be."

Stiles' mouth opens and closed. He can't process what he's hearing.

"I d-don't. . ." He shakes his head, "W-who knows?"

"Only me and Derek. It is your place to tell anyone else," Talia replies. Stiles wants to say that it was his place if he wanted Talia to know and _not Derek’s_ , but as if she reads his mind, Talia adds, "Don’t be mad at Derek. He told me because he was worried and scared for you. He did the right thing, and now you don’t need to worry about the body in the woods. What we need to focus on, is recovering. It still haunts you, doesn’t it?"

Stiles doesn’t need to answer that. Talia knows the answer like she knows thinking. He see’s Donovan every night in the nightmares that still haunt him.

"Recovery is a long road, Stiles. I know that sounds cliche, and common, and fake, but it’s true," Talia says, and her lips tug up into a small, soft, sad smile. "Despite this not being your fault, you are going to suffer the trauma of it for a long time. But, you have us to help, you have us to support you, only if you let us."

"I’m scared," Stiles finally admits, voice no louder than a whisper. "I. . . I don’t think I’ll ever be normal again."

"You don’t need to be normal, Stiles," Talia replies. "I just want you to be healthy, and safe, and happy. That’s all that matters to me."

Stiles just looks down his hands. He eyes the scabbed half-moon indents in his palms, the specs of dried blood still under his nails.

"Have you ever gone to a facility, Stiles, to help with what you feel?" Talia asks.

He doesn’t look up. "My mom has made me go to therapy, but I don’t feel like it helps."

"I meant for eating disorders."

Stiles stills. He’s never considered his eating patterns to be a disorder, but now Talia has said it, he can’t stop realising how true it is.

He has an eating disorder.

"I. . ." Stiles croaks, his voice suddenly lost. "No. I haven’t. . . but I don’t want to go. Please, Talia, don’t—"

"Hey, kiddo, I’m not going to make you go if you don’t," Talia quickly sooth, running her hand over the back of his head. "I was just wondering if you have, and if you wanted to go, I wanted you to know I’d help you."

Stiles nods. "T-thank you, but p-please, no."

Talia takes his hand in hers. "Is there anything else you’re worried about, love?"

_Your son._

Stiles closes his eyes. He can’t say that. He shouldn’t—

"Derek’s going to leave," he blurts. "He’s going to college and I’m going to be alone."

The word vomit leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He clenches his eyes further shut, a tear slipping past.

Talia says nothing for a long time, and when her hand moves away, Stiles knows it’s happening. He’s finally pushed her away.

And then, a hand is curling around his back and shoulders and pulling him gently to the side. He goes with it, and finds himself leaning on Talia, head on her shoulder and body curled in.

"What do you know?" She asks.

Stiles chokes a sob. He can’t stop it, or the tears rolling rivers down his cheeks.

"He wants to go New York. He w-won’t stay in Beacon Hills, and th-then I’ll be a-alone and—"

"Okay, sweetie," Talia soothes, stroking his hair again. "It’s all right. I have an idea, but I cannot make any promises."

Stiles doesn’t reply. He can’t think through the sobs racking his frail body.

"Stiles, are you listening?" She doesn’t sound mad, she sound soft and caring.

Stiles swallows his sobs, nodding shakily.

"Stiles, how would you feel about moving to New York?"

He freezes. Her words flip over in his head.

Stiles jerks up, eyes comically wide and tears glistening on his cheeks. He stares at Talia, trying to process her suggestion.

"Move to New York?" He echoes, breath spiking.

"Yes, if you want," Talia nods. "It’s only a suggestion. If you don’t want to then—"

"Yes."

Talia blinks. "Stiles, there is a lot to think about. You’d be starting a new school, leaving your friends behind—"

"Yes," he repeats, firmer this time. Scott and Lydia won’t be mad, neither will Erica and Allison. They’ll come visit, they’d love to come to New York if they had the chance. Starting a new school sounds scary, but not as scary as living in a house with Robert Hale.

"Are you sure?"

Her question falters him. "Do you. . . do you want me to?"

She smiles. "Of course. Of _course_ I want you to stay with us, to live with us. You’re family, Stiles. You’re more family to me and my children than some of my actual family are. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay, I want to help you get better. Nothing makes me feel worse than the idea of you going back to that town."

Stiles listens to her words, soaks them up like a sponge to water. His chest feels warm, blossoming like a flower.

He feels _loved._

 

He only goes back to Beacon Hills once, with Derek and Cora at the end of the summer. Robert isn’t there, so packing his things is no hardship. He throws what he wants into two suitcases: his clothes, his books, his art supplies. The rest, he throws away. He doesn’t need it, and he discovers that he doesn’t want it. This is a fresh start, and that means letting go of the past.

Cora is staying in Beacon Hills, saying that she has friends here and Robert doesn’t bother her enough to move. No one is mad, and she’s not mad at Stiles for moving in with her mother.

He’d phoned Theo the night before they flew back. He barely let the other boy speak, just said quick and strongly that he was moving to New York, that maybe in the future they could talk again, be friends, but until then, Stiles wanted nothing to do with him. Theo hadn’t argued, just apologised again and said he’d be waiting. Stiles didn’t know if he was serious, but he forced himself not to think about it too hard.

Scott, Lydia and Erica, who came back from college just to say goodbye, see him off. They drive him to the airport with Derek, and hug him so tight he feel his bones grinding together underneath his skin.

"You better not forget about me, little man," Erica says, pulling back and ruffling his hair. Tears are in her eyes, but her smile is happy. "I want a phone call every month so you can still help me with Calc homework."

Stiles nods, chuckling breathlessly. "I’ll never forget you, Erica."

Lydia squeezes him for tight and so long he fears she’ll never let him go.

"I’m proud of you," she whispers into his ear, still wrapped around him. "I’m so fucking proud of you."

Stiles just hugs her tighter. "I’m going to miss you, Lyds."

"Damn right you are," she replies.

Scott is full-blown crying when Stiles hugs him, melting into his larger frame, enveloped in heat. Scott has been his friend, his un-biological brother for as long as he can remember. Leaving him for New York feels like a punch to Stiles’ chest.

"I’m sorry," Stiles whispers, low enough so the others don’t hear. "I’m sorry for everything, Scott."

The older boy seems to understand what he is apologising for without making Stiles say it. "You don’t need to be sorry, Stiles. You just need to get better."

"I will," Stiles promises. "When you come out to visit, I’ll be better."

Scott squeezes him once and lets go, pulling back and holding Stiles by his cheeks. His big, tear-filled brown eyes are inches from Stiles.

"I love you, man," he whispers.

"I love you too."

"Stay safe in New York, okay? If you need anything, _anything_ , just call and I’ll be on the next flight out."

"We all will," Lydia adds, and when Stiles looks over to then, Erica nods firmly.

They all hug Derek before the older boy announces it’s time to go.

As they walk to the airport doors, Stiles spares a look over his shoulder at his friends. They’re all still standing there, watching and waving.

Stiles waves back, when Derek takes his hand and asks if he’s ready, Stiles nods firmly.

"Ready."

 

_— the end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you <3


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